Written, partially, on the walk to work during a recent bus drivers’ strike. Tweeted as a short poem on Friday, refined to this on the Monday. I say refined. Elongated. 

Popped from my shell;
by action struck
out of a self-made bubble.
Forced to walk ancient paths
made modern, by face alone,
and modern roads burned
by history’s glow.
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A South Bank Story.

Now crunching wheels grind the concrete
Metal bones groan
The blasting surge of the Thames
Heard in silence.

And he, pausing,
an old man now
(by the standards of these things),
Stops and breathes.

He holds, not proudly,
The board he once rode.
One of many; a few shattered
And spilled him aslant on the slopes.

He is a phrase-book
Brought through time
To translate the thoughts of those
He knew here.

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