I am in Regent's Park.
Away from the omphalos, you know,
Away from all those fountains.
I am instead in that wide space,
Which relies on park benches,
(made of wood, stuck in concrete)
To recall where that conversation was held
Or that kiss took place.
Where streetlamps light up sequentially like modern candles
And chase the sun horizon-ward.
I see distant red, yellow and brown buildings
And think it Autumn.
But I do not care to come here much.
I wonder what it looks like, that vast expanse,
When it is covered in snow.
When people deliberately crunch it underneath their feet,
When salt is sown to colour the snow with
A greyness that matches the paths beneath.
I want it like morning sheets, I want it like cleanly broken virginity.
You name it, I want it like that.
I want it wonderful.
But I do not care to come here much.
I am in Regent's Park but beyond I see the road
And hiding around the edge of my periphiary vision,
A sight is caught that robs unreality with nonchalance,
The image that has ruptured my excision:
The Spirals and curls, on a cast-iron fence,
Something for scrap metal to lean against.
This is a sodden London if there is no escape,
But I do not care to come here much.
Some narrower paths I try to walk,
Keeping to the perimeter of the park.
I see CCTV perching on trees,
Their waterproof wires manacled
To bark, like artificial lianas.
I see wet pavements, spotted with gum and paan.
I see the vapour before I smell the weed.
And not two hundred metres away I know
Lies a glass wonderland, where silicon panels
Consume more light than the plants.
And beyond that:
Cars shroud the city morning in fake mist,
Storefront neons blink, cheap souvenirs yield,
A graffiti backdrop frames and potted plants each acquiesce
To their allocated window-ledge.
I hate it all very much, that city,
But I do not care to come here much.
I meander towards the centre,
Where trees in the park have rusted over
Or succumbed to some kind of turqoise lichen
That reminds of oxidized copper.
I note the barbed wire around the gardener's hut,
How its weaving incorporates the thorns, spines and prickles
Of surrounding plants.
I wonder which of them hurts the most when touched.
Only when the time comes to leave,
And I must re-commit my soul to the urban spirit,
Do I glance at this artificial eden and think,
Think of all the wooden benches stuck in concrete.
I do not know how long they will last.
But I do not care, to come here much.
