Riverside Walk, walked so many times before,
Lies more littered than ever beneath my feet -
At the first bench, four winos murmur harmlessly,
Whiling the day away in homeless ossification.
This is an old haunt with new features,
None of which are complimentary:
Broken bottles and empty cans still litter pebble island,
But now with such excess
That the island itself is drowning in filth;
Some trees, beaten by the ferocious turns of
The moody weather, lean on each other for support,
But the weight becomes too heavy
And two trees lie fallen, side-by-side,
Brothers in arms who fought a futile fight;
And then a man walking his dog strolls
With nonchalance into the heart of this country,
Shattering my delusion that this place was secret, safe -
Entirely our own.
Riverside Walk, walked so many times before,
Is not what I expected it to be,
But neither is it the place I really wanted to see -
Tradition rather than expectation dragged me there.
My true interest lies in the opposite direction
Where a crack den lies in seeming obsoleteness.
The walls are as crumbled as on my last visit,
Nearly two years ago, but there are signs of recent use:
Empty boxes of Doritos and multiple cans of Druids
Carpet the withered dead grass,
While two metallic boxes act as couches for visitors,
A luxury absent before but which I avail of now;
Smouldering embers at the heart of the den
Fan the sad dying smoke towards its end;
And there’s writing on the wall,
New graffiti supplanting the old
Which confirms all of my previous perceptions:
“Crack den - don’t pay with the walls.”
Then breaking branches and footsteps
End my reverie - the winos are returning.
