Zombies of the Empire

A city levelled by a blitzkrieg blast,

Rebuilt by brutal flat-pack architects.

Walled in by shadows, anchored in the past,

The zombies of the empire hold their breaths

for life support from London. Come the day,

Forgotten change from Whitehall’s sofa slips

through greasy fingers for allotted ships,

They’ll touch up flaking, peeling naval grey.

I watch them haunt the streets named for dead heroes,

Pass swiftly so nobody sees me stare

at Larkin’s daffodils, in bloom, despair.

My shame will drift away, for those round here though

escape from rabid clutches of the past

is sought in bookies, fags and frozen food;

the churches are all boarded up and graft

detritus crumbles down then scars the view.

The new estates resemble Lego bricks

in temporary stacks of fragile shelter

with mouldy walls and condensation drips.

Upstairs they moan and groan all night together,

I listen, contemplating going out

but pubs close down, go queer or go too straight

while German discount stores proliferate.

The pile of empties says I’m doing nowt.

We once were educators, engineers,

Imparting justice and morality

regardless of a blood stained mutiny.

The world has turned and now we live in fear

Such desperation leads us to forget

our heavy-handed role in this demise.

And so the first stone thrown is duly met

with tooth for tooth revenge between the eyes.