The Meadows

There are cats like scurrying rats in sewers.
Cars, parked, looking homeless on the street,
curious dogs pacing and sniffing the concrete.
Neighbours like characters in mystery novels.
Our bumpy road with potholes and cracks.
Everyone walking on crumbling lava ash.
The crisp packets are living a quiet life –
tip-toeing, cartwheeling, dancing.
The broken street signs are sleeping
with scrawled-on walls bleeding graffiti.
Catalogues surviving on doorsteps.
Letterboxes stuffed with leaflets like
words in mouths of chaotic minds.
Old chewing gum stuck in its ways.
The penny that was abandoned today.
Cigarette nubs scattered in places.
Cigarette nubs engraved in pavements,
like beer cans in a rock star’s basement.
The drunken fences are coming down
like leaves falling to the ground, dreaming
autumn nightmares and filling in the spaces.
The wind that makes the world move,
challenging the clouds to racing.
The trees that slow the rain and hide it.
Crumpled newspaper trapped in branches.
Yesterday’s news dancing in the breeze.
The sun’s kiss flickering through the trees.
Birds on rooftops watching like snipers,
a group of youths feeling like outsiders.
Footsteps on The Meadows getting fewer.
There are cats like scurrying rats in sewers.