Sabbath

Preacher holds court in Clapham.

Keen customers crowd to the edge of felted seats.

Buses lug the sultry commuter to their Sunday service.

Occasional cry of the stoop-haunting addict

Punctuates the city’s hymn of

Baritone buses, soaring soprano sirens.

I hop through the estate;

Windows hang open,

Loose like the mouths of shopkeepers.

Fumbled change clangs,

Mimicking the slow rumble of chugging trains.

Withered fruits adorn heat-stroked shop fronts.

Polished church clogs clip loose pavements

Sweat mopped from perspiring brows,

Handkerchiefs hang loose from ringed hands.