Pound Shop Ashimmering In Rainlight

My local pound shop casts back lost souls
anciently flung from the death-throes of rock n roll,
This one place, still, I clang my faith;
One pound firm, behold the grab-pack toothpaste.

Cartons in eastern curlicues,
Cruiser consumers bruise switch-back queues,
Swashbuckler toddlers' lance party foam
as the security man scrolls his mobile phone.

The frying pans keep fresh six weeks,
The perfume blooms shriek their facsimile-wish.
She towers her pylon labelling Polish fare,
Beautifying the aisle she seems to floatinglyfloat right there.

Then a tannoy announcement,
As my ear buds plug in..Icelandic ashimmerings..
Icelandic ashimmerings..bedazzling a..
Till-service-requesting:
Iceberg chords gush aloft a drama of glitter and shade..
A pram-prang stage-left segue shape-shifts the nightingales' glade.

Wafers of waves,
I'm in my pound shop daze:
A translucent snowflake flu-zen-euphoria;
A bottleneck shoegaze.

The tree lights still wink in a Christmastime February,

The Belisha beacons blink rainlight softlysoft outside.