Lace

a deft flick of the wrist,

sent the blackboard rubber

hurtling across the room,

like a missile, leaving a fine mist

of white dust in its wake,

as it intentionally missed its target,

8000 miles away,

Sir Galahad wasn’t so lucky,

as he valiantly died,

saving an island full of sheep,

while in the city,

big brother took his eyes off the ball,

allowing the meteoric rise and demise,

of sherbet dip fuelled yuppies,

who did their time for white collar crime,

now sit huddled in subways

sharing white lightning and stories

with the forgotten veterans,

as workers pass by on their way

to stark white offices in Canary Wharf,

white sailed clippers a distant memory

of a grand and forgotten heritage.

© flotsamweave 2019