Dots and Dashes
It's telegraphic, scribbled on fence posts,
newspaper bylines, sign signals that
something should be passing through
this way again, some somebodies in
the hip-swing 60s, in the coke-strung banker days;
that feeling you never are first at
doing whatever it may be.
let's trace faulty wiring to the beneath stars
of Hyde Park's firing fountain reflection,
let's hum melodies to the clang-clamour of
trainers and stilettos on plastic bits of Underground step-up,
let's drink in mock-Shanghai of Shard bars,
pretend we're rich as Russian oilmen twice over,
let's flood the riverside patios in Shoreditch
with a thousand sparks of dancing shoes
let us live, and be young, and be with the Thames.
Then even if it is just
dots and dashes, dashes and dots,they'll be ours alone.