LEA VALLEY
The wasps had never known such spoils before
That summer – ‘95, on August 1st,
A leisure centre terrace at the core
Of the Lea Valley, sating lust and thirst
Of thousands overwhelming cups and bins
And pouring into doorways with a zest
Almost romantic, zoning in on skins
Uncovered, loving fearful blood the best.
I sat with Mark and Martin, in the car
For hours – we sweltered on the packed roads east,
The Cranberries on the radio, smell of tar-
Macadam melting, as the vespal feast
Continued, bombing windscreens with panache -
The thrill before the coming thunder crash.
RUBIRIIZI
He waited out of goodness, or to prove
His God’s existence – I’d be sooner lost,
I thought, unkindly and, by now, unmoved
By talk of miracles, remained uncrossed,
Just thanked him with a dim smile and a shrug
Of scepticism, met aggressively
(I took it) with “Praise Jesus” and a hug
Of nascent friendship met unwillingly.
He saw me – tired and lightless – and he took
Me to my lodgings, and my name he knew
Already, and it’s written in the book
Of life, among the saved and blessed few.
Were I a better man, I might be honour-bound
To tell him I was lost, and now, through grace, I’m found.
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