Haway the lads.

Haway the lads.

Alvington Crescent.

Once there were housemaids

Trapped in basement kitchens

Rattling their bones

Over a hot stove

Cooking breakfast

For the family above

Who would still be abed

Whether peacefully or not

Their lot was so much better.

The serene looks on the faces of children

As they sleep

Just before morning

When the frigid winter sun

Prises at the blind

Forcing its way through

Demanding to break the spell

Of night.

Too many people live their

Lives following the same path

Housemaids no longer,

But wage slaves

Single parents

Street cleaners

Junior doctors,

With and without hangovers

Recovering addicts all,

In thrall to the morning

In various stages of decay

Blundering through basement flats

With overgrown gardens

Once splendid.

A Convulvuli scrapes

Against the French windows

Demanding entrance.

After a night spent staring at the crack

In the ceiling

Listening to an old house settle

And the people above

Walking across the floor

Easing onto the bed.

Rusty springs squeak

Until they stop

Sometimes prematurely.

Squirming goes both ways.

Takeaway cartons

Block the door

Early morning smells

Of fried chicken

And coffee from the Costa

On the corner.

Filling the bin

With other people’s cast-offs.

Bundling children into tractors

Is a thing

For the people upstairs.

Basement dwellers

Drive a twenty-year-old Clio

And drop the kids into a breakfast club

Before heading to work

As a scrub nurse.

An office temp

With a degree in philosophy

Is no surprise anymore

Neither is the price of a house

In Hackney.

Everywhere is gentrified

Even the cemetery

Has been priced out

And the residents

Moved on.