THE GREY

I speak of the grey

Of towers melting tall, angled shadows

Melding into history’s mist

In the city’s midst

A British Versailles

Her crown jewel, adorned in speckled grey

I speak of the grand daughter

Whose well-meaning mortar pierced Bethnal sky

Whose riches raised spiny mountains

Whose kindness kept them standing

Looming over cobbled court, to sate its traders, judge and jury

Honeycombed with rooms, all manner of wares

And yet still brittle



The market tree was felled

Whittled down to gates, lions, strawberry and lavender murals

Silence in the sunflower slum

Near recycling bins, hungry jackdaws leant on scaffold

While crowds pass by in blinks

But no, not quite dead, not quite gone

For while London burned, its walls endured

Empty halls to a grey teeming with colour

A brick greenhouse to sprout new stories

The railings, the gates, the iron

Its sole survivors, standard bearers

The angel’s hope remains, the grey has bled away

To leave the black, and with it

A brave new day