Well done her.

Well done her.

Even from an upstairs window,

In Harrow or

High up in an Enfield council block

Nineteen floors or more,

Anxious about fireproof cladding

And emergency protocols,

With the only breathing apparatus

A mobile oxygen supply

In the flat next door,

Where the old guy with a limp

And hangdog expression

Who put his empties in a crate

Outside, as if they were

Milk bottles, awaiting collection

And always looked ready to spit

Or keel over,

From what seems to be a gradual capitulation

To COPD,

Not that it has stopped him from smoking

Or using a mobility scooter

To frequent the Red Lion on the corner.

It has a number plate,

The scooter and not the pub,

So he should be liable

For drinking under the influence

Of Newcastle Brown Ale,

It is possible to see

The Cotswolds, rolling out in the distance,

There is a temptation to believe

The green corners of England

Are still untouched by the hand of man

Or at least unsullied by his venal

Aspiration

Where Shakespeare once lived

A quiet life

Mallory discovered Camelot

Tennison Shallot

Magic and legend

Conjured over flagons of beer

In low-beamed pubs

That once thrived on every corner,

From Cornwall to Bethnal Green,

But are often gutted now

Crooked houses torn apart

For new look office blocks

High-end eateries and apartment buildings

With tenancy agreements torn up

By financiers

With an eye on their own posterity.

They would burn us all down

To the ground

Paradise lost

For the price of a mention in the

Financial Times

And to become mainstays

Of the FT one hundred

Which is a modern-day

Equivalent of the Hellfire Club.

As reckless in the pursuit

Of inhumanity

As Genghis Khan or

The Berserkers.