Crack Den Revisited

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.