Ode to Camberwell

Your chimney-spiked spine

rises from the grimy, paved street.

Brick-faced, blackened with age, window-lined vacant eyes


Camberwell, you are

huddled masses of black jackets,

grey hoodies, black umbrellas, plastic covered buggies

splattered with rain and red buses with steaming people.

From somewhere tucked inside

your alley, a child cries, the laughing screech of a fox,

music drifts and blends

into sooty, wood spiced smoke.

A siren tears through your street while

vacant window eyes watch.