On a cold and rainy London afternoon
We seek the shelter and scenes
Inside the National Gallery
Familiar colours of Van Gogh and Monet
The steam tug of Turner; towing a sailing ship to its end
A metaphor for an esoteric world of sail passing into
A memory of sheets and belay pins, blocks and a time of
Knowing the ropes
Gone, in the face of an industrial revolution.
Replete and beaten by closing time
We seek a bus to carry us home
Amongst the throngs of diesel throbbing London cabs
We sit at the bus stop as the digital display promises
An arrival of our number and then
Succumbing to the whims of traffic
Suggests that we curb our anticipation.
Aboard a crowded bus to Wandsworth
Move down the back please
The shuffle; of muffled bodies and
The furtive glances from the faces of five continents
Returned over time from places of long ago colonies and outposts
To be part of the present and future:
Move down the back please.
We jerk and pull on the grab rails as
Outside in the cold and rainy night
The bright eyes of bikes in the rain
Pour past us as they filter to the front,
And then,
When red lights flash to amber and green
They push and pedal ahead
Their only protection in the tangle of traffic
A light, a helmet and
Predictable riding.
At Vauxhall there’s change
The many who alight
Take care crossing the cycle lane
Watch for the traffic of the rushing riders
The racers and folding bold Bromptons
Lit and light and moving
As we lumber along in our double decked red fortress
Shedding those of our number who push the button.
Next stop: Cedars Road:
Home.