High Street Blues
My closed-circuit eyes focus on the line Of butterscotch clouds, melting in plum skies. In this new dawn, ginger tom stretches, yawns. Indifferent to raspberry school-run horns. Treacle traffic blocks my arterial streets. Slap of church-bell heart attack thunders Through the pale snooze of the cemetery. A soundtrack to my Monday high-street blues. Soft-focus on doorway shadows. Cardboard Bed is shed in a methylated shrug. Alcoholic Scorpio, water sign. Sorrows drowned in a foam of Special Brew. Quick cut to convoy of caffeinated Parents, herding squabbling sisters and Brothers through academy doors. Floors Confected with litter and unicorn glitter. Lens-flare flash on a green baby-buggy. Pushed neatly, discreetly crossing the road. Narrowly missing the crates of fruit and Vegetables. Chased by coarse market curses. Flash cut to wild-haired earth mother, reeking Of essential oils. With a wide-eyed child In hand. R