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In pea-soup sixties city fog,
when solidity got lost and sunk
back into murky walls of mist
and the soot-grey, black-smoked halls
of nineteenth century brick lurked id-like
behind a milky snot-green sea,
us kids could make new lives
and conjure light,
for now we were all sky and pointless,
and I could be countrified,
as a weather-vane
creaked from nowhere.
That random eek would
scratch a comfort deep,
an old-time longing
between my shoulder-blades,
and soothe
the addled want
of bright mornings elsewhere;
the swamping
of cement and city
by fog, fomenting
freedom of imagination.
