The crunch, underneath the mans shoes
from mud, dirt and grit.
No way round, just a narrow allyway,
boarded many times, with wood painted,
many thunderstorms ago.
Water crashing on the ground,
a rough concrete texture,
with filth and litter like moss to the tree.
The sound of his shoes squleching,
from the familiar produce of the wet, dull sky
it falls, creating the puddles which reflect,
the cold metalic air,
he walks in a hurry,
smoking that cigerette
where is he going?
He smiles, whilst taking a drag,
he mumbles to himself, Albion
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