The art centre.

 
Three screens flashing,
our black and white past,
of which we are cast.
 
A photograph of a Russian girl in a red dress,
with a blue bucket
and huge sunny council estates,
for the proletariat.
 
The bored, white middle classes of Warwickshire,
drift without talking to each other,
the day is very grey
and looks like the photographs of everywhere else;
the poor students wander in the cold,
trying to be bold
and to earn more than their parents.
 
A cup of lukewarm coffee,
a film about Vietnam at war,
peace hopefully comes to the Ukraine.
 
The students don't protest anymore,
if they do,
they are carted of by the private security,
no cameras allowed.
 
The divide grows bigger,
everyone has their heads down,
communicating with their tri quarter.
 
A board with words on it,
head of something,
leader of something else,
never had the courage to take a camera out into the street,
the palm tree is dry in the blue pot.
 
~