It was the worst of times, it was the best of times
Updated: Jun 10
I can show you empty roads,
unfrequented parks and playgrounds,
dead beaches, city streets
dying from the drains up,
where you’re never more than five feet
from a malnourished rat,
where owls watch for prey from traffic lights
and stray dogs prowl the empty bus station.
Where do they go to, my lovelies?
They haul themselves to wildness
in the dark beyond their homes:
the woods, to build fires by the beck,
unlit bridleways, those lockdown lovers’ lanes.
Lads play football on the rec at 2 am;
It’s 5 an in. No tackling.
in the car park of a country pub
a choir meets up to soundtrack our dreams.
Writing by MARK CONNORS
Artwork by DIANNE REEVES