London at dusk, was dusty,
and we walked from Charing Cross to City
The streets are filled with shocked tourists
who believed the caricature of London
as a rain filled old grey town.
This city sparkles. New glass buildings
bursting into light and throwing
spangles across the water. Crowds are
gathered either side of the Hungerford Bridge,
looking out over the water, sipping wine,
talking late into the night.
Life’s mysteries are here.
Lights shine out across Covent Garden as
the crowds spill out of the theatres and the
opera and into the bars and a long haired
boy strums a guitar.
welcome to the hotel california…
It is a hot, sticky, tropical night.
Trafalgar Square is awash with quiet couples.
The fountains trickle. Two girls are dancing
In this present darkness, it is possibly twenty
degrees warmer than the last time I missed
the same train, and waited twenty nine minutes
for the second one, and
thought of all the things I’d seen and done,
dusty, tired city, shimmering to the satellites
Almost every one of my poems takes its title from a song.