There are times
There are times
When the blood slows
Almost to a trickle
The heartbeats slow down
As part of a bio-feedback loop
Over which I am supposed
To exorcise control
When sadness brings things
To the edge of something catastrophic
I slide a switch in the short circuit
Bordering the limits
Of imagination
Piloting me out over the Thames
To the viewing platform
Atop the Tate Modern
The once wobbly
Millenium bridge spearing out
Below
Akin to the arm of a cyborg
Little people swarm across it
Resembling worker ants
I know it's a cliche
The river is a muddy grey/brown
Churned up by pleasure cruisers
Where once there would have been working boats
Tourists are the new cargo
Now that the heavy old barges
Are little more than buckets of rust
I can taste the iron in the dust
A walk on the Southbank
Is a thick slice of multigrain life
As buskers sing and play
Pigeons eat bread
Shakespeare buffs
Queue to enter the Globe
For theatre in the round
I wander the turbine hall
Finding Picasso
Turning the air blue
Arguing with Matisse about form
I think they are about to wager
Their reputations on the outcome
Nothing is worth the compromise
Of anonymity
So many people gaze at St Paul’s
As I drift away
Into a knot of people
Tied to the idea of dreaming
As they laze in the sun
On the grass at St James’s
I love this place
When the mist rises
The images are crystal clear
It so easy to forget
Just how beautiful the world can be
It doesn’t change the contortion
Of lost opportunity
As the old days are so easily
Overtaken in the race
To forget the reality
Was it ever there in the first place
When it is your face I see
In every crowd
There are times when it makes things
Seem better
The familiarity
How many of these people
Were here at the same time as me
Perhaps I should have noticed
Before the gear change
And time slipped back into sync
To leave them behind
Lingering
In the small space at the back of my mind
As I move on
Sadness is a variable
In a complex equation
Not a solution
But maybe a part of a gradual evolution
An Intrapsychic movement
Forward or toward something
Rather than finding an end
In itself
Or skulking away
Waiting for oblivion
To make an unholy appearance.