And the sky wet as a loose tarpaulin.
I’m walking but not home.
I’m taking the air. It tastes
sweet, like rust. The tide is out
and the mud is thick as meat
over the inner city’s chalk.
Here are the broken fingerbones
of clay pipes. Traffic cones. The imprint
of my own feet, walking back.
Here is a seed stained black.
Live as a fist, but all I want
is somewhere to sit down a minute,
tomorrow’s newspaper (the pages
hot with fish and vinegar)
and the watermark of London sky
green as old money all over the river.