Firm tarmac supports a springing step.
Four-square under the rail bridge, locked garages
arch in a row. Yes, this path must be
a short cut. No puddles here, no ruts,
just rain, shooting like molten sparks off
a drainpipe in the slatey morning.
No one seen for the length of a net-curtained
terrace peeping over the opposite wall.
As though to stir a thought of good
omens in the east, this path curves.
A squat and spiky gate comes into view.
The way through its bars is familiar.
And then the catch, and a fat padlock
clamped fast upon the rust. Go round about,
signs this guide between dole offices.