Peckham

There is no hope here,
only the fluttering of a moth
battering its wings inside
a fluorescent light, stalls
of stolen watches in
warehouses, bought by tramps.

Only burn victims clutching
strangers' arms and blinking
melted eyes half shut at
the glare from bible shops,
flinching at the thud of
a butcher's knife into flesh.

Only bins full of fish heads,
holes in the road full
of halal meat and bones,
sirens coming closer and
the sound of someone's child
crying in the closing dark.