Brixton, April 1981
Late evening of early Spring,
air thick and close, after days of noise,
the streets are quiet.
I hold her hand and clasp him in close
as we walk the length of the street.
We have to get home.
The heat shimmers just above the tarmac.
The heat sizzles between the bricks.
Head down, make self small, away
from the attention of riot police,
we skirt around rubble, glass and papers.
Keep walking forward. Eyes forward,
hold hard onto the flesh of my babies,
eyes on the safety of our front door.
But for how long? Things have run wild
in a matter of hours. It’s a tinderbox
on the verge of being set alight again.