Tuesday, 12 January 2010


Walking down the River Lea
and the canal
barges nesting neatly on the banks,
swans, (miraculously white,)
gliding like Tchaikovsky through
rainbow slick oil and
alien green soap suds,
I must say,
what strikes me
most clearly,
is so much grey.
Colour is there
but the dust jacket stops it
getting out.
I am cynical as doubting Thomas
about the transformation potential.
Then the sun comes bounding from some hidden grey of its own,
turning dross
to pure, surprising gold.

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