after Harry South’s closing theme to ‘The Sweeney’
It blows through a scrapyard,
through unstable towers
of Capris, Granadas, Transit vans …
through yellow teeth and fingers,
a clouded bar’s persiflage
then out onto the street
to lift comb-overs, flares,
wide lapels, facial hair –
a balm for sore ribs, black eyes.
In search of a decade’s soul
it winds through a cemetery
of credits, beige stills
of Regan, Carter and Haskins,
deskbound, drained of smiles.
They know nothing will change
that the narks, the lewd one-liners,
the tooled-up balaclavas…
will be back next week
and that such healing breezes
blow for less than a minute
through the scrapyards of our hearts.
