London  30th August 1997



This city is a hive.
Here we are plugged into our own madness
cheek by jowl, tush by thigh,
the Queen and the undertaker,
the streets alive with working class zeros.

I walked down to the National Gallery
and found that I'm jaded now,
Leonardo's faded now.
Everything's small.
Only the Monets delight.

And I walked home
long miles
through nothing.

Renoir's little girl,
a crack in the oil disfigures her.
We've all aged.

This is an old city
with narrow streets,
cars raging
like blood.

This is my heart beat.

"It rained for six weeks when I got off the boat,"
said my friend Stanley.
"I knew I was home."




                                                                                           photo by Evelyn Kean