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.

                                                          

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