The First

                    

The great strong scaffolds of Soho, 

Sit silent in the early hours of a Sunday morning.
Harold Moore's Records rests tranquil and quiet
Beside the Coach and Horses, and
Neither horse nor coach utter a word to each other. 
The huge famous faces of Carnaby Street
Have become mere facades,
As if they are abandoned sets in some Western
Without extras;
Yes, even Old Compton Street is without its cowboys.
And my unwashed body is reflected in a hundred dark windows: 
Transparent,
As if I am a ghost. 
I may well be the last spectre in Soho this morning.

                                                          

property of silver4chris protected by copyright 2015

Haunted By Eastleigh

Eastleigh train depot,

Abandoned and brown.

Home to old carriages with

Names like Sea Urchin

Printed on their stomachs,

In faded yellow paint.

Gardens grow in the sleepers,

For they have slept for too long.

And then we pass

Through Botley

With its fern leaves and

Blackberry trees,

And the old railroad

Which runs like a ghost

Alongside our train window.

property of silver4chris protected by copyright 2015