Reflections on London
A modern Rome,
A haphazard chessboard,
People like ants swivel around its winding streets,
Buckingham palace, its queen bee,
The tongues of different lands,
Cakes of grey buildings,
The dead rise up and dance in the streets,
Curled stone, voluted columns,
Hatched pavements, smooth cobbles, bobble like apples in a barrel,
A stony Victorian sea,
Women curse and stumble through Covent Garden in their delicate heels,
The open freedom of the river,
Stretching out, flat, but wrinkled,
A gentle giant arm.
St. Paul’s, a pencil drawing in the distance,
Sketched by an architect still coughing from the Great Fire.
I sit and sip my coffee, velvet and warm,
Frothed by smiling Italians.
By Clara Jean