A River Through Ruin

The hours crawl beneath micromanaged skies,

This toxic culture born and bottle fed.

I long knew why the caged bird never sings;

Club feet chained and wings concertina spread.

Worth measured in excel and bloodless charts,

In tittle- tallied scorn of British mould,

From the workhouse slop to the school room marts

Imperialism’s venom brash and bold.

Yet stepping out, the evening air is kind.

The lime tree hums, and night begins to breathe.

I cross the threshold, leave their world behind,

Hold on to a love they cannot conceive.

Misery may devour my fruitless day,

Still. A River flows through the evening grey