Spitalfields Poem by Zubyre Parvez

The apple does not fall far from the oak
Old English Proverb

Those old folk were Columbus's
To emigrating skies they flocked
As anchors dropped on ports
The breeze left their sails
As mud left unfarmed
Lingered as a remembrance
I never knew that we held to
The brown mud heaped wood
It was a habit, a womb of history
I never knew that brown
Was what we called home
the son parrots his old fashioned
Father old and wild eyed
With sweeping gestures
Ruts felt deeply in the concrete jungle
In the stagnation of all repetition
That was all provincial
Was that all there was to see?
Stimulating ideas and a light touch
Makes the moment they grabbed
In a heavy clad bear hug all sentimental
Losing the breeze to the mud again
Deep grooves, like joinery and brackets
Stuck to their ways
Hard won a clamp of metal
The renovation of the house was cliché
All blahze, blahze
Hardly hiding the old dusty allegiances
In place.