Woking

Long after town planner and architect
and the high crane's turn and pivot -
we enter the multi-storey

bound by barrier and ticket,
coiling concrete levels
to slot in allotted space.

We trace its dim geometry
and box ourselves in lifts -
till the Mall's arrival pings.

The Mall in springtime -
a paste of lamb-white faces
buzzing under covered glass;

this air-conditioned bee-loud glade
sucks us into hordes
to infiltrate the food court:

McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut
delight our global children’s
homogeneous lack of taste;

from high-chairs the ketchup spills,
staining trays that stack
the ends of crowded lunches.

Afterwards, we start the slog of shops -
our April spending spree
in the birdsong of cash tills;

but even this green-less place
has its distractions
for a young man's fancy:

a low-cut blouse,
a waft of high fashion
glinting ankle-straps;

and the Mall burrows on -
its undercover reach extends
in sweaty pits beneath the town.

When we exit at last,
squinting back the sky,
the buildings thicken;

pigeons flap in milling throngs
vying for scraps
with rat and fox and crow.

In the footsore ends of afternoon
we corner high-sided streets -
and shock to see the giant tripod:

stilt-thin silver legs
galvanize the rising eye,
angle-up to base and pod;

its caught pneumatic stomp
in mid-stride, scaffolds
the struck retina's gaze -

sci-fi sculpture
war this world again
with indiscriminate zap!

When Woking is razed by death rays -
a germ-free Martian Spring
will resurrect the caged horizon.