Sitting inside a London front door,
Waiting for
groceries to arrive
Or for
inspiration to descend from the sky.
Instead, a
seagull flies by
Honking to itself.
Further off
cranes
Raise and
lower massive steel limbs,
Blinking red
hazard lights,
Like Martian
war machines.
H.G. Wells
may have seen them
As seeming
aliens,
But they’re just
another part
Of the
constant re-invention
Rebirth,
construction and destruction
Of this inexorably
expanding megacity.
Is a vast
pulsing heart,
Or a growing
slime-mould,
Spreading out
towards the seas?
Going on and
on
Until the
end
Of the Great
When?
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