East End born

Her life is inextricably linked to London
even though she left the smoke for the fresher air of the coast.
The lines on her face are indelibly traced and permanently etched by London
which neither time nor tide can erase.

Her mind meanders effortlessly; freely taking flight
through the winding streets of London every single night,
whilst her feet, overcome by sleep, lie motionless in bed instead
despite the paths they might have tread.

She had been a flower girl in Covent Garden once upon a time,
then an actress on a Drury Lane stage, a rising star in her prime,
and then for a while she trod the boards as a lady in the House of Lords.

But now she sits at a bench on the pier
and hears the shriek of seagulls feeding on the shingle.
From here to the horizon the skyline is clear
but in her eyes the city lights still reflect their twinkle.

More poetry

Firestorm

Phrases of fire
blaze from the pyre
of combustible conversations
and overheated arguments,
the kindling live wires
of hot-headed egos
in the passionate throes
of anger and wrath
and heat-seeking ire.

© Alan Kenneth Kite