this Square in Autumn hisses; its tidal canopy filled
with a disquiet nature, never more so than with
the tracks and macadam at its rough-hewn edges
thankfully rested.

it's no more conscious than when beset by the drill
of engines in pursuit; the Moulinex waul of heli-spotters,
the inland seagull of sirens and bonnet-soft alarms:
its rhythm 'n' blue lights.

this Square in Autumn kicks through its debris,
its dogs worm and weevil in all it's shed; its waspish,
scarved young things gate-propped, thumbing
mobile fascias, wait to kiss.

it's humbled by its own theatre; a sprue for local accent
and inebriated reproach, which echoes longer than
the shared headache and plagued memory of
what was scream-said at 4am.

this Square in Autumn is wrecked: its thinned vessels
and veins reach where its limbs had range; where
the hatch-wig of crow nests sit like marriage bands,
thorned crowns.

it's sodden and stuck fast in stippled bursts; its rapid
tunnelled squalls fleck its doors, patch its sills, while
its dosed whores and 30quid-a-wrap scores
take to its steps.

this Square in Autumn is biscuit crisp; its pick-up-sticks'
knit, its insects, pop and click; for Winter's hearth and
grip it's seasoned and grave - these are its bones
in all but name.

© Christopher Brooke - 2005

Feedback from competition judge:

"A real poem that stretches the edges yet still manages to encapsulate just what it is to be living in Adamsdown Square. 'this Square in Autumn is wrecked: its thinned vessels/and veins reach where its limbs had range' - a sort of south Cardiff music, stuttering on, not part of the big millennium change, not caring much either. Brooke is a poet of the fringes and, despite the brochures, we still have those a plenty in the capital." Peter Finch, Academi