London Calling
London calling
it's smokers lungs bleating
in sharp consonants, lulling vowels
a mother's voice calling to her bosom
a pillow
in the City of Dreams
The wordless fields, speechless roads
gape and swallow like a hungry fish
The empty air echoes, taunts
and jeers
at night the small stone walls turn into brick
and pavements grow from grass
and orange faces peer red-eyed
through the dark
the twigs crack underfoot
brittle fingers like the lies
that keep me
and night time calls again
poem by Jack Turner
Added by Poetry Lover
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