The Mild Squares of London

We who graze the mild squares of London

Like leaves the size of scurf …

“This patch of land is worth millions.”  I look at it.  Some old iron railings.  Broken paving.  Weeds grow.

Real estate.  This locus of attention. 

Real inwardly; outwardly - real.  Neither.

Down this street where people walk: these millions.

Tear the cloth off the mullioned windows.  Wipe away the soot.

My gaze is directed inward, an outward show: my words say,

They say pay me.

Tags: Jon Silkin, Millions