the evening air is ripe and falls
to the ground and floats on the thames

you sip lager alone by the
open door and watch the harvest

at the bar and on the tables
fruitful words are piling their aims

into neighbouring laps and wait
to be watered with compliments

the kings road ripples unnoticed
you’ve not been picked by mistake? arms,

hands out, you pull the tide forward
and drink its juice without asking

                     …  

you drift through a wood of tourists
the blue tint in your hair the sky

penetrating through their branches
to the undergrowth of world’s end

where less than trendy natives drink
without bright clothes to catch the eye,

like petals, of the tourist bee
and so are never seen or picked

as all the punks and poseurs are
but simply hang around to die

an unromantic winos’ death
in winter when the migrants leave     ..