Battersea Fields

Do not forget me, Battersea fields,

in the park where grass

was ankle high and seed heads

crushed in the hand

sweetened the morning air

heavy with fat smells

from candle works,

where each green blade

seemed softer under fingers

than fine lawns did years on

at the north end of the staling city.

Do not forget me, Battersea streets,

whose gutters were cobbled,

grouted with gravel, dust

where summer-sole shoes

curved over their hunch, bent

unsteady ankles as mud

from the ‘mere slipped underfoot

and matchbox boats in rain

swirled slowly by sweet wrappers

down drains through whose wide grids

slopped childhood lives.

So, I can turn to the place

where, if I am not wiser now,

I still feel strong,

the last of your grass in my hands,

your cobbles under my feet.