We colickty-clack past shabby houses,

clinging together in rows;

cringing as trains rattle past.

Tin tubs hang on walls.

Grimy urchins playing games

are sheltered from the sun by the

green gasometers gray shadow.

A cloud of dust and smuts

speckles off white washing.

Pale faces peer and disappear,

as light glances off windows.

A network of wires,

spun like spiders webs,

criss-cross the scene,

cutting it into moving angular pieces.

The red sign on a pub

swings listlessly.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1987