It’s never a grind on this road
the traffic’s never static
the pram pushing grans
go busily home while
the earnest preechers
teach the cobbles forgiveness
a skill they’ve always had

the school kids
provide the whine of the engines
plastic franchises squat in lines
while the rain remains fleeting
and thick and the air
makes your
black
sick

little punctures though
abound
in a fresh
cacophony of colour
gentle seconds
are everywhere
in this
community

I spend my days
looming over this road
like a overcast shadow

this sharp little cut
our gentle tarred home.