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On the edge of the quays
Sticking on the tracks
For a few moments
The tram almost looked like
It was nailed down with glue,

As the heavens exploded
Blowing coke cans
Across the tracks
Then empty pint pots,

Slamming shut nearby
Restaurant door
And pushing car drivers
Onto the bonnet of their cars,

An nocturnal drift
Moving from one moment
To the next
Rather than a constant echo
Of air raid sirens
Ready to blow the ground
To pieces,

Than waiting for the signal
To start once again with its journey
Without hearing the laughter in the air
of what was shortly going to happen

just up the road.
Posted by onewriterandhispc at 23:23