In Memorium Salvador Allende
The bells of St. Anne’s are ringing down
East India Dock.
Do they ring for Christ or Pinochet?
Tears falling like rain
on the mean streets of London, red as
workers’ blood, falling on the market place,
on a labourer’s fierce decency,
a busman’s daily lot;
flooding the streets with pain and desire.
Plane trees fingers into a winter sky,
beautiful as Bengali girls,
straight as Cockney lads.
We are all alone, but not separate
from each other in the streets and parks.
We live in the spaces of others’ lives.
To spill the entrails of M.I.6.
that worldly terror,
onto the wide market pavements,
between the alkies and fruit stalls.
Life so fragile, death arbitrary.
Lascar seaman and Bantu gold miners.
And I have heard in desperate streets
poor kids whistle like blackbirds,
David Kessel © 2014