Page 50 - Microsoft Word - 1_light travels_FOR FLIPBOOK ADJUSTED.docx

HYDE PARK
Footpaths rise and fall
as if skirting swans' wings,
crisscross endless commons,
intersect at monuments
remembering those who have been.
Silver cyclists flow around strollers,
children's laughter bubble over granite. Ducks bury necks, daffodils circle bare trees.
I open the door – cold air slices smells of soup.
In a corner where framed sepia swimmers brave the frozen Serpentine
I sip hot tea, eavesdrop accents
while that favourite, almost forgotten nomadic anonymity
sifts like snow
all over me.