Gunky

Gunky

In a hidden lane beneath a bruised‑blue sky,
London’s gutters drip a gunky lullaby.
A wretched colour, clotted with old peat,
Its misted breath all the cradle of a spate.

The runners in the park, in wartime quips,
Refuse to step upon the sodden slipp.
Yet somewhere beneath the crumbling clifftop,
A droplet sighs his own gunky gospel.

I trekked on, my shoes in gunky stains,
A pasty‑scented print on the corridor's lanes.
A chalky light, a taste of board-room life,
The Monday grey was gunky and so rife.

The schoolchildren, forever in a line,
Queue at the corner stall, the tea so fine,
And yet the kettle spoon—so gunky—pours
A cup that tells the day’s grim, sticky laws.

At dusk, the lamplight paints the puddle in glee,
A swirling dance of grime and faint memory.
In that sombre gunky puddle we find
The heart of offence, still wrapped in state‑and‑bind.

O gunky element of all bustling streets,
Your taste, your colour, damp shoes, and greets,
A humble reminder beneath the swath of night,
Even the murkiest first triumphs after light.