River ride London

 All along the river light play’s on broken bottlesswayed by the rising tide; the falling of hearts. Ghost crowds bicker, phantom children run and playthe tourists talk on mobiles to Bologna, Prague, Istanbul, we sit sipping ice cold drinks watching the clock tickon 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 ticktime back to us. Your blue eyes flecked with green, a silver ring binds an elongated fingeryou 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 arcsstalk the blank facades; we edge closer as a dull wind rattles the river, turn away from bobbing boats and police sirens, back towardsthe pungent symmetry of eyes, to search for warmth.