Acton's Lock

A crowd flowing out of Aldgate Station,
Matt, on sound, bagged the wrong man.
‘Not him, the bloke in sandals,’ Sal
corrected. Us in pursuit, he made off
towards Whitechapel High Street.
Permit-lite, we’d elected to wing it,
no one stopped us, he never asked
our motives, Sal shooting (her idea),
the Sony PD170 has a larger viewfinder
than the 150, overall, a quality model.

Then the public were always butting in,
hustlers, shot-hijackers. ‘Why the hat,
mate?’ a workman shouted, pointing
at the windjammer. ‘To keep it warm,’
said Matt. That note of assurance
you only get with a John Cass student.
What laypeople don’t understand,
it’s hard graft, documentary-making,
not even grace for a cigarette break
though I could tell Sal was gasping.

A Lamb Pasanda looked imminent
when he veered down Brick Lane;
he didn’t slow, was mainly ignored
by the faithful emerging from Dhuhr.
Then the doubting set in – had we
the right man? Only Sal’s testimony
he’d come again, and that via
a Wikileak. The other two muttering
we should grab a pint at Ye Olde Axe.
If we paused we were done, I said.

Then we regretted the morning’s banter
in Starbucks, our Bafta acceptance skits,
the lack of planning. My questions filled
a half side of A4. In the moment, none
flew. I’d visualised a BCU of the palms,
the holes. Of course he was wearing gloves.
The DV tape split. After that we gave up.
Chilly blue heavens, I was rummaging
for aspirin when, cool as you like,
he stepped out onto the still lock.