We slept in Poets’ Corner
under trees whose leaves
winked and turned
in the late afternoon light.
And I wrote nothing, despite
the apparent inspiration,
the grass, in squares, too business-like
for poetry.
Or mine, at least.
Complete and completed
curled around our bags
our hair intermingled, as asleep,
head-to-head on the green
we drifted;
lost and still amid the fray of the day.
Consumed in new ways
by the city around us
so different from ours
so smart
and humourless
dressed for dinner at all times
in soft suede shoes,
we were arrested by wealth and,
opaque as whole milk,
we walked.


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