Early one Friday afternoon I met a druid
In a part of town where a lapis coloured Stone Henge
Stands against the backdrop of a yellow wall
Yellow like sand on a Caribbean beach
Yellow like the sands of time
Like me, the man is a son of the Windrush
Settling further South in this town where
Sea going business was abandoned
And vast concrete docks stand dormant
Vast concrete blocks are orphaned
And sold, fostered by men of means
Who offer a well-furnished future to young professionals
Who don't quite like the vibe but love the view
The town that you knew is soon to become a thing of the past
As socio-economic, alchemy takes place before your eyes
The Rotherhithe!
The New Cross!
The old guard?
Gone!
Remnants of what was line the streets
like our magic man's wares of miscellany
line the Deptford Market path
The smell of fruit in season's bloom
Music from the garage era booms through rusty speakers
Tunes that take me back to days when class and race
Played no part in our playground interaction
With a little bit of luck, our West-Indian Warlock
will make it through these crazy nights
and sell some vintage Nikes, a BMX, or Sony Erricsson
A CD player, or infant car seat,
or antique gong, or some of those old clothes
His Holy jeans and T shirt
Speak of hardship and hard work
In a town where 'working-class' is both a talisman and curse
Thrice he beats his chest and extends to me a fist saying
"Yes Iah! Respect! Jah Bless! guidance!"
His warmth and self-esteem betray his life of modest means
He says he has, "Nuff Stuff"
And he has a spell to dispel all the myths that mar those in his coven and
The magic's in his mouth, where teeth as yellow as the sands of time
guard a tongue, red as the tomato stew that bubbles on the adjacent stall

(First Draft)

James Massiah

"South London, Stone Henge" 2013

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