Poem By Peter Jones
This hot summer night is stifling me
in this prison of North Pimlico.
From a forth floor flat there is little to see
as I stare at the street down below.
Dull houses bake in the sticky late air
and the evening is holding its breath.
There’s a thunderstorm brewing but I do not care
for I’m totally ground down to death.
How I wish I were beating against a wild sea
in a cutter, bound for South Wales,
in a gale that is throwing its spray over me
and singing a song in the sails.
There’s a reef in the main and I’m holding a course
For the Mumbles Light out to the West.
I am free and alive, and caught up in a force
that is putting my soul to a test.
But I’m trapped in this brick mousetrap instead,
crushed down by the weight of the walls.
With a bit of a lean and a turn of my head
I can just see the top of St Pauls.