Greetings to the Tate Modern
and the low grey cloud that hugs the city like a lover
so that even your footfall over a bridge happens under cover
Droplets of air lick at cheeks and lashes and
fingers escape warm woolen bundles
Dampened pedestrians and sounds ghost
between staring statues and clear concrete
clad in weathered words and eons of gorgeous garbage, grit
Rat trails edge gutters and gaps
Red pigeon shins clear your way, pecking
Trees are fenced off, still
the insistent mist silks their naked trunks
The Black Friar’s pub beckons
with window stains and warm whispers, welcoming
For safety (just in case)
fold your big black coat jealously
around the erotic loneliness
of your traveling self
and walk on.
(I am with you)
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