4 A.M. AT DIGBETH

 There is nothing I am keen to describe,
This coach station being just a station,
The smell of petrol simply an odour,
The drunk on the ground lacking metaphor.

This is no place to work on with big words.
Those three hard bastards over there are not
The kind to stare from curiousity,
They merely wish to inflict fear, or pain.

That woman, with lovely hair and faint lines
That crack her eyes like eggshells, is at risk,
Touched not by the excitment of waiting
To travel, but by verbal abuse from

That direction, over there by the crates,
That shadow in that corner over there.
This is hardly worth making poetry;
The early morning rain drips down my neck.