Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Carved.

How many times have I stood there, by the river, in the cold, with my pipe, within the dark of night. The wintry cold forbade, at times, even my lighter to work. My tobacco froze - flask, fast out of liqour. They were my only comforts.

I've looked upon the OXO tower, and wondered, what if? So many what ifs. How many nights spent walking upon the stones of that bridge; a vagabond, and how many vagabonds who seemed, then, like kinsmen. I understand what it is to shiver in the deep of winter and where there is nowhere clean to return, nowhere, where betrayal does not nest, lies do not fester, pain does not breed - they've polluted it all. All those seemingly good people in their good clothes, in their good jobs, behind their good faces.

The Thames has seen me,
the Thames, have seen many.
The icy wind, always blows from behind
The cold, always smites from behind.

I came here to carve a life but life has carved me.

2 comments:

  1. And this is why you must never stop writing: because another stranger in this wonderous city might be reaching out for the words to describe what they feel on chilly March evenings, when the promise of spring is in the air, but not spring itself. And because through you, they might grasp bits of themselves which were forever beyond their reach.

    I used to stand on Hungerford Bridge at midnights when I first got here, because it was a legion like me surrounded by grander monsters. I am another nameless, faceless person in this city and that is why we resonate so well. Why would anyone risk changing that?

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  2. Let May end, and let it be sunny again, and let this city be even more full of faces and dreams. Then we can find a suitably eccentric occasion to meet.

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