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October dawn, London
Ray Stebbing
It rained yesterday,
has rained all night,
is raining now.
Lightning paints
closed lids white
where I lie,
clinging to sleep
as a drowning man to a raft.
Rain clatters on the roof,
rattles on the window,
taps at the door.
In the darkest-before-dawn hour
thunder drowns the alarm.
Switched on for company, the radio chatters
about jobs lost by the thousand, bankruptcies,
mortgages foreclosed, homelessness and suicide.
A politician chants his familiar mantra,
“There is no alternative.”
Bloated London is still afloat,
though sinking on a cold ebb tide.
Tethered at Westminster Pier,
it rides the Thames,
tugging at its chain.
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