Creative Writing

A modern house built on grey clouds

Old hoping thing

Go gently now

On those dark nights,

Where rats huddle in the garden’s compost heap

To hide with empty thoughts.

Billowing across the street, a black hand demanding answers clutching on to the houses.

Trying to rip the windows out of their frames,

To leave them choking in a watery mess on the pavement,

Trying to leave them clutching to breathless splutters;

Drowning as he once did to others.

Its fingers are plied apart and on, the wind pushes it down the hill; a homeless soul searching for a body to weep inside of.

The street-lights flicker black and yellow from my third-floor window, like a stagnant rash on my arm,

                              A wailing in the night,

                                                                 Thick and pungent Buddleja.

Like stay at home Government magazine adverts,

Will the Buddleia be pushed under the carpet?

Swept into the drains by the side of the pavement,

Unheard amongst the confetti from the Brexit celebration lies,

Amongst the shouting of the poor and jobless citizens,

And the clutter of the past that floods the road at night. 

Still the excuses drop without hard tears,

Speaking senseless noise

Clinging onto their prestigious road far beyond,

Far behind,

Never existing;

A fly tipped spiral staircase.

When will they,


That the night is not just for being robbed by black guys

And that the day is not – just – for white lies,

Spoken in buildings built on top of black lives.

The past flies forward, always the last in line

Saying this is the real world, a just country that

Nothing is wrong.

You are,

              A stubborn grey cloud in a blue sky,

Like true British summer weather,

                                                        Never just raining or sunny, but cloudy with time;

We are,

           Always trying to chase away

                                                          a clear sky;

Tears dropping from every window takes away from honest outcries.

But when the sky clears again,

They will,

                 Always flock to other beaches to pollute new and old waters again;

Breaching their lockdown quarters,

Thinking a bottle of Corona is better than 20 seconds of washing their hands,

Wiping away this fake utopian dream.

A house founded on quicksand

As solid as those new housing schemes.

Affordable glue-d on waste-of-space land.

When the world falls all around you, 

You must notice, how,

It takes only a strong wind to tear a house down,

And a weak wind to see a clearer sky, right now.

And, why,

You must be careful

of how deep it’s already sunk into the ground.





Buried beneath

A modern house

Built on grey clouds.


About Author

Andre Hughes

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October 2021
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