The Ballad of St John's Square

Sky white as good Afghan heroin.

A prelude to snow upon the wind.

The chestnut tree whispers blind panic.

Her fruits never bargained for this.

 

Sunday church bells ring out Jazz for Jesus.

It’s Mary’s last night alone in the choir.

She’s fallen in love with the verger,

even though she knows he’s a liar.

 

Mr Johnson affronted in his doorway,

at the wonderment of news taking flight.

His dog Raffles howls for his mission,

but the cats have crept home for the night.

 

The first flake falls upon the black car,

where Nikki fidgets inside.

Carnations splayed out on her back seat,

begging for Sandra to let go of her pride.

 

Now the conkers are falling as if maces.

Choirboys catching whoppers in the slips.

The branches bow down to the blizzard.

The lamppost flickers along to her whips.

 

Here’s lost Arif traipsing the graveyard.

A Chicken Korma to deliver.

‘Louise Marston Rest in Peace’.

He was there that day at the river.

 

The Verger and Mary are tangled.

The empty pews are reverentially hushed.

Smoking from a pack of Marlboro Lights.

Naked and sweet Sherry blushed.

 

Arif knocks on Mr Johnston’s door.

Teary eyed and neon ice blue.

“Come inside, we’ll warm you up.

Although Raffles prefers Vindaloo.”

 

Bells ringing midnight in St John’s Square.

Nikki and Sandra have a plane to catch.

They’ve just set the hallway ablaze.

History books to a red stroking match.

 

And flat thirty-seven rattles in the corner.

Thirty-eight holds a glass to the wall.

Thirty-nine steps out for a new England.

And at number forty; I’m recording it all.