Lines for Alison
07 January, 2021
THERE is freezing fog by Denton Tower
and the Denton Boyz are puffed akimber
gibbering mightily. Netball is dead,
their asphalt a condominium bed.
Saschen delighted in playing netball,
and elastic was her plimsoll footfall
leaping, to an occasional quick squeak
of an evening, any day of the week
before the Planner fell to the uber.
Now all the deprived can do is glower
and resort to Zoom pornography,
beyond the reaching of a Ministry.
They much like grand Deliveroo Pizza:
the clinging fog, borderline miasma.
They liked to mob in the street in summer
even up from South London, to gather.