The Voice of Spring

This poem was drafted whilst Rhiannon travelled to Their Voice Charity on 23.02.2021 to collect donations for her clients. The sun shined and London's temperature rose to 15 degrees C.

 As the sun settles on the scaffolding of Sevenoaks Depot,

Kumon classes at Croydon's Quaker centre commence.

Stella runs as though a river 

flowing from Christopher Wren Yard -

polluting the sanitized streets.

A sad reminder of society's sleepless souls.

London's southend sick!

Snowbells peep out from the thawing field,

welcoming the smiles of serotonin induced city dwellers;

locked down but now laughing

in a dreamy languor outside Laithwaites Wine

Limited. 

Pigeons pirouette through Purley,

singing the lyrics of Spring,

absorbing the scents of Subway,

stomping on The Sun.

Drivers on the vast road to Brighton,

stand blinded by swords of light

surfacing from the Smoke Shop.

Swallowing Kanna's CBD, 

they saturate winter-withered skin 

in warm serenity. 

The Monkey Puzzle on Milestone Drive

clothes Old Coulsdon in myrtle green,

bringing life to this concrete savannah in February.

The Star Chippy sweats on Stokes Nest - 

fattening fish in fried lard ready for execution;

suffocating the sweet scents of Spring.

The woman with the catkin coloured scarf and chestnut eyes

disembarked the 466 at Crossways -

stepping out into her uncharted journey.