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.