In winter I cried.
And I thought I'm a crying cliche.
And the grave stones would be wet and shiny wouldn't they?
So I curled into my coat closed eyes and rolled back into
Autumn where I was brittle and in shock
And I thought autumn. Brittle. Shock.
And there carved with a pen knife in my autumn tree
It Read. "Cliche City This Way". The mushy leaves.
I slipped silently into spring
And my eyes awoke. Yes I woke in spring
Stretched out my arms. An old wooden sign
Hanging on a chain 'round the neck of the sun.
it read "Clicheville"
So when summer came I thought.
I thought. I'll show you.
But it was too hot and I had to take my coat off.
And my vest and boxers and everything.
There. I march naked up the road
and the sun is laughing hysterically
And I'm looking. I'm looking for signs. Lemn Sissay
The Fire People, an anthology of new Black British voices, edited by Lemn
Sissay, will be published by Payback Press in February