The sound of birds

and soft air

made me think of

cottages in Tottenham

all those ago years


I was the only one

who saw them

well, the only one who walked there

traversing miles

with a sleeping child

music in my ears

mid-green haze

dappled English sun

never blazed

quietly rolling through

knife-crime enclaves

and weird parks

no one used

the way I-

stepped the streets

keeping on-side of sane

and baby



Now a smooth Jenga piece

that slots in my brain

time out of mind

small corner of terrain

untravelled often

fond and strange

tunnel-vision place


new seasons carry

old memories’ trace


Photo: “Seven Sisters Snail” by Claire Doble


  1. I will never forget staying at your place and opening the door to a charity collector and upon answering “Australia” to the question “where are you from?” being stared at incredulously and asked the follow up question “why the fuck are you here, bruv?”

    1. It feels like a long way from suburban Australia that’s for sure. Recently read Why I’m No Longer Talking To White People About Race and the author grew up in Tottenham and talks about the ridiculous levels of inequality in Haringey.

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