Crouch End

Will Hatchett

The yellow fingers of the sun 

The blue sky to dream on 

The red buses and the

Black crowds, standing in line. 


The white curtains drawn back 

The sun brushing your hair 

The bakery's buttery kiss 

And the yellow leaves, like flowers. 


The buses nudge like glaciers 

Down the brick hill, as I take my leave

Of the white face in the window 

Under the optimistic clouds.