Apparently, through wild hibiscus and wild salvia, the path was wayward and stonier
than imagined, like the curmudgeonly contours of some interior will
reaching a rickety cairn at its very zenith
from whence our assembled sceptics and serfs could behold
the gridlocked map of the city, and, a stone’s

throwaway from each stone – the confessional grill
of a Taxi-rank, a Peabody fl at, a trail of discarded pomegranate-pith,
skank-beat of red, green and gold

with added hi-hat and thermals of sensemelia – New Babylon or Estonia
for all we could recall
of it – a barricade made from trestle-tables, a sawhorse, an old tin-bath

on the divide between Coldharbour Lane and urban myth
– same old, same old – its lone sentry feeling like Louis Michel

exiled in New Caledonia.