Here

 

At the corner of the Croft

is a Basket of Light

This is where songlines weave up 

through pavement cracks

Despite

 

This is where, not so long ago, 

breeze blew over poppies in wheat and cows in clover

on Stokes Farm

 

Now

skateboarders wheel round pecked out buildings

and boots stamp burnt foil into the tarmac

of Stokes Croft

 

But at the corner of the Croft is Here

whitewashed crypt, bucolic respite

 

here are violins and mandolins

car boot Cassio keyboards

bread bin drums, guitars and

voices, banjos and banjos

 

where once sheep were grazing

music makes the place amazing

 

The ghost of Old Stoke

stalks the night, the darkened streets

forgotten meadows hidden underneath

 

Songlines snare his ears. He listens

sound, light

weaving up from underneath

 

weaving up from underneath

 

Under this whole city

a Basket of Light