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,

with Indigo.

 

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.