Low Rise Flats

 

Written while observing two old people going in and out of the high rise flats at Elephant & Castle

Plant pots for gardens, smothered with attention
The daily washing ritual staves dimension
This may be a jungle made of concrete
But don’t expect to find a king
A bed-sit reflects mundane life’s receipt
No sign of the lion did it bring
Sixteen floors of identical sorrow glimmering in the rain
Boxing broken marriages and shattered prides. And pain.
Reflecting their reflect
Blaming societies neglect
For the trace of dreams left staring at their face
Questioning which point this intruder decided to replace
The hopes of success and admiration
With inner torment and frustration
Left to break the day with offerings of tea
Flower boxes, washing sheets and day-time TV
Only a train spotter would envy their wrenched view
Instead its horse racing and a shite to look forward too
Solitary trip outside to buy her John Players
No flight of fancy, just 30 flights of stairs.
The lift hasn’t worked as long as she can remember
Pretty sure, it was the winter of her fall. 78, December.
Ritual check of the phone, still no message at all.
Only recognisable words are the graffiti on the wall.
Still at least the plants will never die of thirst.
Not until the occupants dimly lit flame dies out first.