My old house, now a small field.
The road, once beside it, field too.
Big green patches of green, sprung haphazardly
so the street reads-
grass, grass, tenement, rubble, grass.
The Luftwaffe, patchwork architects
of the mid-century
Nail houses not new here.
The council banged the final ones in.
Dragged what was left down.
Blew what was left up.
Decades, it took.
Progressively disconnecting us.
“In their innocence they called it Civilisation,
In fact it was the chains of their slavery.”
And we are bulldozing again.