From this suburban hill, between each road,
the extremes of South London can be glimpsed.
A momentary glance to my left side
shows off the famous site for porcine blimps
that dotted the iconic Pink Floyd cover,
where yesterday our Mayor BoJo pimped
the latest Power Station makeover—
homes, businesses and jobs, jobs, jobs!
I look right to see smoky billows hover
above the burnished hues of Dulwich Wood,
perhaps a smoldering pile of leaves and branches,
but closer to me, just down the same road
the sudden scent of bacon sandwiches
blows up from a film crew’s catering van,
they must be shooting in the local houses—
another sitcom, condescending, bland.
you’ll catch it on a minor freeview channel
six mirthless episodes before it’s canned,
or maybe a tense thriller, starring an old
film actor, now signed up to ITV,
no longer needing The Method to channel
the hangdog spirit of a CID
inspector deciphering some cryptic kills.
It’s this or theater, dahlinks, no reprieve,
after those heartless bastards dropped The Bill.