See the river Brent courses
see the people flow,
all kinds and conditions
in rain and fog and snow.

You might know
the greenman in kingsbury
abhors the national front,
wanders in kew gardens
and sometimes has a punt.

There's the westminster traitors
brixton dreadlocks edged with hats
disputes in willesden factories
and spats in flats.

The four skins
play the tavern
the traffic's at a halt
another bloody suicide
nobody at fault.

An expert in geography.
routemastering around
in Kilburn town they're up
while in Maida Vale they're down.

In the Cricklewood tavern
on the colour TV
the death of a British soldier
greeted with glee n 1973.

St John’s Wood,
the staid placidity of money
predominates
decade after decade
opening time
comes round
at the chime
of the clock
at the Lords'
cricket ground

Open the gate
to the hallowed turf
of kensal green
cemetery.
children's graves
row on row
in rain or fog or snow

While in South Ken
the noveau riche
are doing it again
laughing at the poor
as they hit the floor

The chimes of Big Ben
roll up the thames to the sea
through the marshes of essex
passed the famed Marshalsea.

While iIn Wandsworth town
I hang around
drink and spit and frown
at least there's work in this old town

dates, times, affairs,
were nothing to
the young Johnny Keats,
the world at his feet,
on Hampstead Heath.

So soon to be dead
yet in his head:
St Agnes Eve
aye, ages, long ago
all the beauty
and all the truth
that ever was
on this old sod.

Lost in a London fog
or buried under snow
ringing out, clear as day,
through times, through tears:
to cancel false hopes
and scatter real fears.

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