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West Norwood wears her graveyard

like a borrowed stole; stretched

louche toward the river, lies at

patched and tattered ease with

sparkly gastro-pumps acrossed in

ironic virtue at the New Tulse Hill Hotel.

An arm, relaxed, caresses Streatham;

A crook’d elbow keeps posh

and pushy Dulwich half at bay.

The Norwood Road, unbuttoned, shows

the stretch marks in her wrinkled greasy skin,

and up by Roseberys her grey hair

hangs dank and lustreless upon her neck.

But she has jewels upon her

grubby fingers - scratched survivors

from a better time. Sure, and her old

waters run deep. And I who

crept here when she was not looking,

I who heard the the agent clearly say

‘Noone leaves the road ‘cept in a box’,

who knows but that I will keep whatever

promise that I made her when I came?