Docklands.

Docklands.

Foul is the taste

Of age and decay

The stench of disappointment

Rotting bones

The disgrace of broken promises

Made as the sun shone

We are all skeletons

Shadows cast

Against a sunset sky

Crooked limbs

That once swung

With powerful grace

Precious gifts

Priceless exotica

Safely carried

In the arms of a titan

Reduced to rust

Buried in rubble

Encrusted in dirt

A corrugated jumble

Of torn rooftops

Crumbling walls

Riven with the growth

Of abandonment

Crazy pavements

Chased by dreamers

Spidered with cracks

Lifted, upended

Carried away in carts

Requisitioned by entrepreneurs

Finding rebirth as a patio

For the comfort

Of young turks

With a view to die for

The thirst of a new start

At the heart

Of the old town

As old-timers frown

At their lack of sorrow

For what was lost

To build a new future

Tomorrow.