The City Of London

Introduction:

I wrote this in the middle of the night, many years ago.
My mind went back to when I was a little girl
and my brother and I went to visit my Grandfather.
We stopped that day to walk through the City, there was a mist that morning and a fine rain, the sort that makes your hair frizz.
The tranquillity of the early morning streets was rudely broken
by people coming into the City to work and so here is my memory:

----

Early morning after a thunderous night
I can breathe easy.
If I'm quiet I may hear the sound of birdsong.
Sometimes there is a mist.
It hangs over London like a veil.
Soon dawn's empty streets
will heave with massing crowds.
but until then all London is at peace.

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poem by Ruth Walters
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A view of the queue...............

I'm sitting outside a café
as my feet are killing me
from walking too much,
I've heavy bags and it's hot.

I watch a queue for Vue - Cinema,
they're showing Avatar.
The queue is getting longer
and people start to sweat.

A couple of guys down the front
start making whooping noises,
loudly, like they're apes.
I don't get it, at first,

but then I notice they're behind
a black man and they're
gesticulating to him.
I begin to feel uneasy.

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poem by Ruth Walters
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Hammers (A trilogy)

Hammered

The hammer is inside my head,
it's a never ending drum beat
that is my husband, berating me.

As he his key turns in the lock
my blood pressure
rises.

He'll check the wallpaper
for marks that the children
may have made.

He'll demand I keep them quiet,
take them away,
control them.

They are only toddlers
and I have only

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poem by Ruth Walters
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Pocket fairytales....a trilogy

A Pocket Fairytale

He sat in a white van
with no working handbrake,
similar to his temper, with no stopper.
He'd no tax and no money.

What he'd salvaged from life
was an old mattress,
a few old clothes, a fancy chair
and a pot plant.

The door to her house
was bolted, several times
just like the seven chances she'd given him
and the neighbours curtains were twitching.

There was oil leaking from the engine
just like his bleeding heart
and the rear light didn't work

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poem by Ruth Walters
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Pressure

There was a kind of pressure, in the room,
I mean, it wasn't anything tangible but it was there
and he looked about him to try to spot the culprit.

A suspicious character was drinking brandy,
he could certainly be the one, but wait,
there she was, a tall red head with hawk like eyes.

They looked at each other and then she crooked her finger,
"yes… you" she mouthed! "Come here, talk to me"
He slowly walked towards her, settling at her side.

"It's cold for the time of year", he whispered.
"Not cold enough" was the coded reply.
Then she took out a yellow glove from her bag.

"When are you going to introduce me? " she asked
"That's right, " she said, "I'm from the ministry"
and I want you to act as though we're old friends.

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poem by Ruth Walters
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