A memory of a small but unforgettable part of London.

Walking down to Camden Lock

with colour and fizz all around

on a warm August day:

narrow boats, top hats and silk scarves,

old pubs, rent boys, spruikers;

The Regent's dark canal,

people-watchers. Music like jewels.

Such is the raucous silence

of loneliness.

Chris Hubbard

2018

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Been there

Done it

Eaten it

Drunk it

Almost drowned in it

Nearly died

Praised it

Cursed it

Dodged it

Traversed it

Just you name it

I’ll have tried

Smoked it

Snorted it

Been traumatised by it

Reduced to tears by it

Laughed and cried

Run it

Walked it

Chased it

Caught it

Wished I hadn’t bothered s...

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`

Cry we all toward places unnamed

Rise above the crested hills

Yell we will - shattering door frames

Plundering thoughts of plovered wills

Tear at the wallpaper - reveal the grain

Ink the slate - etched by wound-dipped quills

Crouch, prowl - ready to pounce on game

Brandishing swords, blaring trumpets shrill

Arching backs, phosphorescent wicks ...

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