A poem about London in the summer that I'm still revising.
|Londoners are so accustomed to the polluted air
That when summer eventually comes --
And the air becomes so thick
That it wobbles before the eyes --
The Londoners don’t notice.
Instead, pale legs and pale arms emerge
The city becomes heavy with sunbathers, tourists, sunglasses.
It seems to take on a new weight.
But then the breeze comes -- bells chime
Skirts dance around pale legs, hearts race.
The city, for the briefest moment, is weightless.
It seems to rise with each breath of the wind,
And fall again into heavy laziness.
The stars make a rare appearance --
Lifting out of the darkness of space
Illuminating the soft, steamy nights.
Then the wind picks up, and the city rises.
Its lights mirror the constellations
-- Breathes in, rises; breathes out, falls --
It’s people become a milky way of sorts
A hazy procession of pale legs and pale arms.
The Londoners notice. They dream. They sigh.
Their breath rising and falling
And they float, closer and closer to the stars.