Subtopian Sunday.

On a Quiet subtopian Sunday,

in a photograph for a street.

Where the sounds of my foot steps,

among the few sounds that I meet.

Are pinned to the silence of this sleeping town.

Like the cats that are fighting,

and a policeman on his rounds.

And silently, so silently,

it trickles through my mind.

That we never had a future,

But I never read the signs.

What we had was precious then,

now precious little remains.

Most of what we had,

was thrown our with all the pain.

Like yesterdays news,

that blows in the wind,

swept across the road,

to the stray dogs and the bins.