Where I’m from
My mountain is a dusty London hill,
where dogs and runners tussle at its crest
to view the smog-bound city, hot and still.
Dedicated benches provide rest.
My river is a subterranean force,
flowing under Camden to the sea,
filling up with sewage on its course,
unseen, unloved by many except me.
My people are an under-flavoured stock:
Vikings sliced with Celts and boiled for days,
vicars, sheriffs, chips from the same block
providing worthy meals in tasteless ways.
I’m swimming in a gene pool deep and wide;
I’ve left three half-read novels on the side.
