On Canary Wharf
Tall blocks hide the sun, throwing shadow on long walkways;
they funnel a fall wind, chilling my brother, his beloved, and I.
We see Lehman's people exiting swing doors,
revolved into the cold of disuse.
They'll take the light train, the last, to encumbered homes,
their wonder descending into worry.
Some take unusual time outside, are collared by reporters,
speak of bewildered accounts into camera lenses,
are quizzed into repetition of a morning only part unfolded.
Coppers stand by fretful of demonstration
in the stark square; they help lingerers move on
like mourners gravely after burial.
We wander the cool dock, unpeopled by the draught,
she clinging to Tim's tight arm, I zipped up;
on moving stairs descend to shops and stalls and stands,
bright boutiques and warm cafés. We drink hot chocolate,
cream-topped, watch short-cropped city-suited men pass,
some passing time, and girls in office frocks conversing.
All this while all that is solid melts into air.
By Antony JohaeQLRS Vol. 14 No. 2 Apr 2015