What remains.




Most of the bleak high risers are gone,
those towers of poverty,
they told me on the bus,
we came from Aston.

The electric under floor heating,
huge sarcen stones,
glowing in the dark,
we ate porridge and froze.

They have treatment orders,
report for your soma,
the kids are called Roma.

No silver bells
and cockle shells again.

It is midwinter
the ash tree,
is waiting,
for the free warmth of summer
and songs from the birds.


King David remembers the love in Wales,
maidens will go a dancing.

~