Chela creative area
Brimsdown
A thousand bicycles
eddy around me
held back by gates
as heavy and slow as the locks of the Lee.
The only way home is over the line
that runs to the City of gentlemen and money.
One man is a Catcher.
I see him standing by
a low steel barrier
holding long unwieldy tongs,
overcoat to his boots, tied with string.
Thirty foot of luminous copper rod
shoots through a small hole at his feet.
As quick as any mongoose
he catches it by the neck,
snaps it over
to flail down a long, iron chute,
then thrusts it back through the barrier
to be pulled, to be rolled to wire.
Each day, he risks
a thousand fiery embraces.
I open my eyes;
he’s no longer there,
the factory with its great crucibles -
gone.
In its place,
warehouses.
Roads have lanced Brimsdown,
factories bled away,
there are no bikes.
The line still runs to
a City of gentlemen and money.
© Anthony Fisher July 2007
