It’s dusk in South London,
Towards Clapham, red sky
Deepens, darkest crimson,
Reason fades like sunset.
In a Vauxhall garden
Scattered white bread slices
Adorn the darkling lawn.
On deck, expectantly
Sits urban wild life freak,
Camera in one hand,
Chardonnay in other,
As he awaits his guests.
Radio newsreader
Is switched off in kitchen
Whilst announcing sad death
Of our democracy
At the bandstand vigil.
Last vestiges of light
Fade as the hedgerow parts
And the fox family
Trot acrooss flowerbeds,
No longer timidly,
But bold as bold can be.
In cells old bill scupper
Their community links,
But here, they pour more drinks,
Foxes enjoy supper.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 21st March 2021


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