A fissure divides the town.

 

On one side houses

in perfectly arranged rows,

green spaces

manicured, plants located

by design, straight lines,

undisputed symmetry,

the Garden City laid

according to intent.

 

Scuttling across the rift,

shoes echo dully

on worn concrete, crossing

between divided lives.

Trains hurtle below

to Elsewhere, screams

resonating the girders,

shuddering the structure

to crack open

the unreality.

 

The other side:

disused factories tower,

grandiose facades betrayed

by pristine paint now dirty grey

and peeling; a faded

mosaic of tiles motley

and disjointed, stained

with pigeon excrement. Iron

besieged by creeping rust

lays flaky waste to structure.

 

Sneaking moss paves the way

to colonisation.