Kilburn by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, London, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


Sometimes, I think of Kilburn;
Wrestling the wreath, of an unnamed
Tree from Ireland.

We clamour to Kilburn,
Calling to past ways, pathways,
As spirits are tap’d out and sold.

And where would you be,
Kilburn? Catching the hordes,
The Gypsies, the More o’ers

Passing their ways, their trades,
Their songs “O’er The Fields,”
Sunny, no.

Which way to Kilburn?
West, is it ? I guessed it
Would head to that part

Of the unladen bird, where
It would take us; come with us

Patterned, we fashioned
An emerald and I’ll ask,
That one be put in your name.