Weekends.

The cobbled streets and lit up lanes,
(shops with foreign sounding names)
house the smells of onions and night’s spices;
Cobra lager, pappadoms; unscrupulous devices
employed by in-tune Asian brains
exploiting native vices.

Under garish coloured lights,
they howl for service,
spoil for fights.

Around the billboard corner
where the sodium streetlight sighs,
a fumbling, blind Teiresius
is searching for his eyes.

Help him up, brush him down,
point him back towards the town.

Into the black park of the noisy shadows –
by the glowing red blooms in the bushes,
past clinking beer bottle privets,
and the shrubbery pissoires,
a welcome change from the noise of cars.

The moon in the boating lake
is shattered into shards
by a tumbling drunk,
who makes the dogs bark in the yards
of cottages, whose bricks have echoed
similar tricks
week on week.