rain-reflected street lamps
glisten on broken flags
as shadows pass in plastic macs
of resignation.
dunes of rubbish
huddle in the doorways
of derelict shops.
Their signs a butcher’s bill.
Tower blocks look down
upon an ancient church
its empty pews secure
behind a bolted door.
In its graveyard,
promise lies buried.
And shouts of “last orders”
echo nearby.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
revised 19 September 2026
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