My feet had lost the vibe since they last

pounded London streets and pavements,

over two years before. Their beat dropped when

they went country, back in Devon.

They ambled like a tractor, blocking the

winding lanes. They trundled to the local

shop, over the bridge and dawdled to the

post office. They squelched in mud and

adapted their pace to a local drawl, to

gossip about the weather and village

scandals. They followed a coffin in the 

hearse’s wake and heard echoes from

past times. They shuffled to their car on

winter mornings and idled on the brake,

still half asleep. They were suffocated in

plastic booties during ward lockdown, to

slide over shiny floors. They stomped

through twelve hour shifts like Godzilla

and heard their nerve-ends tingle when

they sat down. They heard the rasp of

their calloused skin and the wince of

bunions, as they bivouacked in their

trainer-trenches. They heard their sigh

of relief as they trudged up stairs home

to bed. They listened to the scuffle of

their rubber soles as they walked up

the road to the shops, scraping through

leaves. They felt the pulse of London

and heard the hip-hop of their heart-beat

as they swagged old ends; reclaiming

their two-step rhythm.