Footprints end

Stopped in my tracks by words, by a fan­fare of blasts and horns and cries and the faintest of whis­pers. Syl­lables must, sen­tences must not. Out, damned spot. Out, damned semi-colon.

I remem­ber walk­ing through an alley some­where off the North Pole. I’m sure it was the North Pole. There is a road that leads there, in an anonym­ous corner west of the tower blocks and pol­luted high­ways. An encamp­ment at mid­night, where we dived under the rusty metal gate because we had woken the neigh­bours. Dogs barked, smelling strangers’ blood. We found ourselves in the estate, loom­ing and anonym­ous and barely lit, where you dis­ap­peared again to weep against an end wall where ball games were not allowed. Blocked in and trapped.

There, right there, you told me that, one day, you wanted to sweep the streets of Lon­don with me. I didn’t know what you meant. I do now. I know each and every sub­ject about which you were giv­ing me clues and crumbs, because I have opened my eyes occa­sion­ally and looked inside myself.

I want to sweep the streets of Lon­don with needles, then dust it with stars, then kick the dirt into our faces. Yet I can accept that now, today, it will be alone. You’re happy in your corner, sur­roun­ded by warmth. Please stay that way. Stay and stay. And stay some more. Forever and longer, because it suits you more than the urban con­fu­sion of that alley ever did.