Between Finsbury Park and King’s Cross

Photo Credit: Martin Addison — Flickr

Stacks of buildings
Blackened by rain
Stand dead amidst wind
And the screams of a train.
The sky spins with clouds,
Smokestack belches,
Folk grumble and shuffle
In muddy, wet squelches.
Temples and stadiums
Drenched in past glory,
Food smothered in paper
Red, crinkled and gory.
Whispering in foreign drawls
Or is that just the drink?
‘They’re killing us all’,
In a manic white scrawl
Stands out like a scar on a grime-covered wall.