Not a murmur is heard, no quarrel, no riot,
As the skies over Peckham fall blissfully quiet.
The planes on the runway, the clouds are unstrung,
That distant volcano has unfettered the sun.
Windows flung open, mad birdsong at dawn,
The 4am thunder is finally gone.
Down at the Rye they're outside for a drink
And the dead up at Nunhead can hear themselves think.
Yes spirits are rising, there's a percussion of bones,
An avian beatbox and a keyboard of stones.
The whole place is heaving, they've thrown off the shroud,
Now only the sirens seem unnaturally loud.
That distant volcano has unfettered the sun.
Windows flung open, mad birdsong at dawn,
The 4am thunder is finally gone.
Down at the Rye they're outside for a drink
And the dead up at Nunhead can hear themselves think.
Yes spirits are rising, there's a percussion of bones,
An avian beatbox and a keyboard of stones.
The whole place is heaving, they've thrown off the shroud,
Now only the sirens seem unnaturally loud.
– Kirsty Hamilton
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