All along the river light play’s on broken bottles
swayed by the rising tide; the falling of hearts.
Ghost crowds bicker, phantom children run and play
the tourists talk on mobiles to Bologna, Prague, Istanbul,
we sit sipping ice cold drinks watching the clock tick
on The Savoy.
Christopher Wren never saw St Paul’s rising behind the Millennium Bridge,
Tate Modern breathing through its perfect towers
we are mirror thin specters of humanity watching the clock tick
time back to us.
Your blue eyes flecked with green, a silver ring binds an elongated finger
you unfold like a letter from a child’s story to tower the magic sky
which children paint from Stepney to Lambeth Bridge,
Two flower sellers, small blonde girls, their plaits twisted into curved arcs
stalk the blank facades; we edge closer as a dull wind rattles the river,
turn away from bobbing boats and police sirens, back towards
the pungent symmetry of eyes, to search for warmth.