High street, clock tower shadowed
by a thick plane tree dripping its leaves
on tarmark & traffic. Shoppers pour out
the supermarket like hunter-gatherers
in search of meaning (new life? new religion
to cling on before the end?)
The end is close
a poster barks on platform one.
The man with the big issue
smokes in perfect balance with his mood.
Down the leaves creek and shriek
a novel hope for his new soles.
They come and go like laborious termites.
Is he listening to the deafening
sound of that plane ahead?