The world is grey, perpetual twilight
is what passes here for day.
The sun would rather stay in bed
beneath the blanket clouds
than show his face and grace
the world with beaming smiles.
The moon may gaze benignly
on some foreign shore
and doubtless, stars are shining
in antipodean skies
but here, we get by without their help.
Cowering like beaten whelps,
those of us who can,
Toil in shops.
Mostly though,
with winter sales in full swing,
we stand damp-footed on the chilly concrete flags,
press our noses to the glass
like urchins peering at gilded privilege,
and strain our ears to catch
those words of wisdom
spilled when money talks.
Back home, the opiate of daytime-telly
waits to fill our bellies
with the dross of Simon Cowell,
as would-be failed celebrities compete
for approbation or derisive howls.
Bring me sunshine,
not the might of Rome
with it’s cold-turkey diet
of bread and circuses…
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