Snow On Tottenham Court Road


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1. Snow on Tottenham Court Road

 

I liked you best on that evening when we

Stepped out of the theatre and away from

The gripping reach of cinematic escape into

Something more obscure – snow, and

Perplexed faces pulled upwards as

Something innate howled at Sunday moonlight.

 

We moved as ricketted cowboys do through

Spaghetti Western saloons; avoiding the fall.

We were him, Django, unchained from the normal

Pace and drudgery, that ant-hill life of endless work.

The air seemed starched and heavy with

Make-shift philosopher’s thoughts.

 

The City held its breath, quiet,

Still, caught up in an ancient wonder,

The rare bursting of the clouds -  

Not for long, as cries against that inconvenience

Returned, not welcomed since we were children.

We kicked in our spurs, but

 

It survives in a faint impression, a

Snowflake caught on a searching tongue, a

Businessman’s almost-slip on the

Pavement’s treacherous path.

You catch it, for a moment, in the

Gleeful foot stamps printed on the slush.

 

I like you best in the morning, now, after the fall.

When sunlight turns the stone blonde and

Sifts through slatted windows, melts

Away the furor of crinkled foreheads in the

Wake of troubled dreams, and causes

Deadened branches to shiver with life.

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