The murder at Fleet ditch (Death of a Frenchman)
The gnarly dulling chestnut
which nestled as he tumbled,
now rested in a crease of cloth
where pocket debris crumbled.
Hard biscuit, theatre tickets,
a torn café receipt,
the disheveled Houndstooth jacket,
unlabelled, now indiscreet.
His fingers, tabac yellow
nails flecked with precious earth,
the last thing which he clung to
for all that he was worth.