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.