Pigeons and dogs help themselves
To dirty water from the fountain. It’s 8 a.m,
November is drawing to its sombre end.
Gusts of people clutter the entrance to the tube
And only I, slouched across a bench, chain-smoking,
Appear not to care for the embrace of the morning chill.
It was right there, beyond that fountain,
Beyond those empty benches, beyond that tree,
Which now, leafless, shows off its time-twisted splendour.
Trees seems to be heading for the same place the human race
Once sought to get in touch with. I try to envisage
The diversity of languages they will speak;
Perhaps this time punishment will not be so severe.
Squirrels eagerly perch on tops of battered benches.
Every five minutes the Tube spits out a number of humans
Who cut through the park as if it not existed.
Some are sure to drop a bite to nibble.
Traffic wardens hunt for recklessly parked cars.
Almost-white smudge from a tiny airplane
That whisks you off away from me halves the sky.
London is wide awake. Life will happen again.