Waterloo Sunset. Part Two

The crack of glass,
the howls of burnt dogs,
the squeals of looters.

A police car
and a screaming siren.

The music for the last couple.

Terry and Julie,
near Waterloo station.
A Friday night.

Hunched in an alleyway.
The sky rages,
strange and orange.

This is a sacred place.
Their London.

“We are going to die here Julie,
burn to death.
We’re not a priority.”

“I know Terry.”

The spotlight
and whirl
of a helicopter.

A rope drops,
hard and frayed.
A voice,
thunderous and electric.
Pleading.

“Grab it!
Grab it now!
We’ll lift you clear.”

Pulled like crane toys,
above the bedlam,
a capsule of military green.

“Just one match is all it took Julie.
I had to do it.
To change things.”

“I still love you Terry.
Let it burn.”

Terry and Julie hover,
above Waterloo station
on this Friday night.

They snake the Thames,
to the badlands of Essex,
and otherness.