by Christos Polydorou

It is night
The sun has set
All that is left
of this Wednesday is ash

The flowers have closed their eyes
And the petals of the magnolia leaves
have been swept up
by the coldhearted wind

The magpies travel mostly alone
snubbing the cans of rubbish
unlike the bullying ravens
or the seagulls flying up above

And the neighbourhood feral foxes
are running across the car marked streets
of a drunken violent London
that has been miserable and cold for two days

The opposite
of an indian summer:
Some call it
global warming:

Oh London that Morrissey
declared dead

You are easy to love
Easier to hate


Where Spirits
once flourished

And Prophecies
were poetry

And the King never changed
the words in any texts

Shakespeare used to urinate
gold in the streets of London

It is true
But that gold has long been looted

and sold to the black market.
It is June

It is wintry

It is freezing cold.

Our boiler is broken

We cannot wait any longer
So from the fallen petals
and leaves and silverdust of time
and stars we rise fully formed

Beautiful muses

Playing our harps
like electric guitars

Dancing to keep warm
meanwhile ushering in the future

Dance step
by dance step

Begging for summer

It is June

We should no longer
have to be brave

Give us your
We are ready for

Sleep now
sweet spirits

Rest deep
The summer of your life

Look up

at all the swallows.