The independent London newspaper

Ode to Pollard Close

07 August, 2020

• I LIVE on Pollard Close, an estate that I call my home
It’s not a chateau in France, or the Vatican in Rome
I love my small community and call my neighbours friend
But these ASB issues are driving me round the bend!

Laying in my bed at night, I wait to hear a noise
Waiting for those junkies or another gang of boys
All I do is wait to see if they’ll come back
To inject heroin in their groin or have another hit of crack

They come into the gardens, they go through someone’s bin
It really is relentless; is this a fight we’ll ever win?
They poop on the staircase and drink in the block
They do it all the time, all around the clock

Children encounter someone laying on the stairs
A man with no home to go to and his clothes are full of tears
He’s out of the game and completely off his nut
He got in because the intercom door is broken and won’t shut

Then there’s the drug dealer on his bike in broad daylight
He comes onto the public path and looks left and right
He stops for a minute and then the junkies pounce
They give him their money and he hands over a gram or an ounce

The councillors don’t listen or take any notice of our plight
They don’t care that I lay awake night after night
We’ve been paid lip-service for a number of years
Are they hearing what we say, do they care about our fears?

Move, sell up, live somewhere else my neighbour did suggest
It’s difficult to know what to do for the best
I really love my home, it has a piece of my heart
But maybe they are right and it’s time for a new start?



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