He came in nameless,

To a place which knew him not,

A place to which he said he would return

One day,

When the rains had soaked him far away

And he'd be drenched with sweat from the walk.

He sat down by the Cenotaph, and

Respectfully, mind,

Cracked open a tin of Rockstar

And supped the nectar purple,

Knowing, next day, he would hirple

About, his legs and thighs so tender,

Limper than jelly, washed up in his bed,

Too painful even to roll off,

With empty fag boxes littered about

And the stench of lager lurching from his lips. 

I think the worst is over.

Through the mist that clouds his squinting eyes, 

He makes out the familiar outline of a street.

The defaced signs, Times black

On milk-white, scribbled out with graffiti.

The neighbours’ overgrown porch a tangled jungle 

Of moss and abandoned pots, lonely toys, rotting wood.

The house

Where generations of his family had lived

Decades measured out in Sunday roasts 

And Hancock’s Half Hour.

Powerless, he sits on the step and exhales a fog of fumes.

Why return? 

He’ll mull it over, or rather, 

Will ponder on anything but. His attention will be grabbed

By the fragments of concrete and grit on his fingertips, 

Remnants of the monument’s dust.

A corner-shop might catch his eye and pull him

Like a magnet

From this step he’s made his perch.

But he won’t.

I know it.

Not with his roots so deep,

Strong as a mass of telephone wires.

I think the worst is over