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Finsbury Park Station - a poem

Updated on December 22, 2009
bus station
bus station
Islington workhouse
Islington workhouse
29
29
Finsbury Park Station
Finsbury Park Station

Finsbury Park Station

 

I have seen the death certificate – died in Islington Workhouse 1914

Dead toes under starched sheets

A name in copperplate - a plumber in Angel Court

Inside my veins I carry the blood of people who walked here before

 

The eyes of fish, black and round, gaze a North London street

I walk the streets where I used to live

The pigeons bathing in the flooded lawn, lose feathers in the muddy pool

Greenfly on the traffic light make long shadows in the sun

 

The 29 bus rocks to a stop

Disembarked at Finsbury Park Station

Heads and shoulders, knees and toes

Dishevelled commuters shuffle on the past  

 

I walk the streets where I used to live

The busker still plays Bob Marley

Somewhere in the beat of time the times are washed and cleansed

The mini mart Greek Cypriot’s daughter is ever cheerful

 

I walk the street where I used to live

African grocers sell African herbs

I only remember good times

Somewhere in the beat of time they washed the dark times from my head

 

I walk the streets where I used to live and wish I lived there still

I walk the streets where I used to live past sixteen tongues

Five unknown to me

Born to die in English, drowned by offspring  (I have seen the death certificate)

 

Outside the Moon Under Water I stole a kiss

It dried on the lips and planted sweet needs

The months in these streets chasing replenishment!

In The World’s End the beer and music wore grooves of joy!

 

Action evaporates in time and lingers in recall

I have seen the death certificate

How many ghosts follow me on Stroud Green Road

Eating pizza or steak and kidney pie?

 

The evening sky spreads light against dark clouds

The orange streetlamps warm

A cold breeze slips and curls about The Dairy

Looking for warmth from the laughter inside

 

I walk the streets where I used to live

I have no bed here now

I slip inside the mouth of Finsbury Park Station and step on the past

I have seen the death certificate now

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    • maven101 profile image

      maven101 7 years ago from Northern Arizona

      So true....The past is always rose colored...bury the badness, hide the faults...Your prose flows with a life, long dead, but still alive in the present, only different somehow...I enjoyed his nostalgic walk through your North London...I even caught a glimpse of a San Francisco I left behind many years ago...Very impressive and expressive writing my friend.....Thank you, Larry

    • Micky Dee profile image

      Micky Dee 7 years ago

      Nice. You do good work sir!

    • hotspur profile image
      Author

      hotspur 7 years ago from England

      Micky and Larry you're too kind. Many thanks for your comments, as ever they are much appreciated....San Francisco, went there once...City Lights Bookstore (don't tell anyone, had a Beat phase - I was young!)it was cold and foggy they never told me this could happen in California!

    • Cris A profile image

      Cris A 7 years ago from Manila, Philippines

      your wanderings and meanderings make for some bigtime nostalgia. but why is it we see the past differently after we've lived it? great poem, thanks for sharing :D

    • hotspur profile image
      Author

      hotspur 7 years ago from England

      Thanks Cris A; probably the same reason why past summers are always sunnier...beyond trauma and tragedy the past is a safer place...gald you dug the poem.

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