I watched them washing the dirt at Stratford
and wondered whether the Olympic flame
would burn any brighter without toxic
waste or shrapnel beneath the track. A clean
pair of heels to show the world, assuming
this cratered landscape is transformed in time.
Without men on the moon; instead, I train
my free, disposable binoculars
on hard hatted heroes in high vis vests
who build scaffolding to polish the sun
and replace the stars with low energy
light bulbs. If only it were so, rather
than scrabbling in the soil; children making
mud pie monuments to running in rings.
