After TS Eliot
‘I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men’
They lean, quietly puffing,
on walls and fences
sporting pac-a-macs and flat caps.
I've seen the smoke that rises,
skims along the street on the light breeze.
It chokes and burns the throat
of the young girl at the bus stop
but the opaque clouds
of dirty lemon
hang and glide through the air
and congregate outside the church
in an Amberleaf- Drum protest march
all the way down to the circle.
The girl splutters as it passes
and the haze disperses,
and a wisp of angels
rises into the ether.