Poems by Jack Mitchell - Atrocity In Middle Street
(by Jack Mitchell)
There was a quiet courtyard here,
decrepit enough, and closed,
but, thanks to the queer chemistry of its parts,
redolent of Andalusia:
high at the back
a shallow roof of ribbed grey tiles,
a slim tower
that could be a campanario,
a rear wall, creepered
with something that just might be vines,
and in the midst
a fountainesque folly rank with scrub -
all framed in the little wrought-iron gate
I loved to peer through.
Half closing my ears I could hear
a falling of water that was never rain.
Last week I came and found
the castellated outer-wall and gate
both gone,
the fountainy thing levelled,
the rear wall draped in common ivy, the bell-tower
changed into a furnace chimney,
the plashy court become a vacant lot,
all strewn with fag-ends and fragments.
NO PARKING it still said on a bit of wall,
but deep in the toothless mouth of the old yard
two seedy vehicles already crouched,
looking as if they'd crept in there to die.
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©Renate Mitchell. May not be reproduced in any form online or offline without explicit written permission.
