London, December

I only love London in winter

Monet

 

Daybright city darts in

for an evening paper,

comes out dark-savvy, neon-wise…

 

trace the city

in your tilting eye, river

cocking its snook through the post-codes,

 

idling past fiscal towers,

great  see-thru  slabs  of executive toffee,

shrugging off this faff of a city without a second glance

 

as one rose-red bus

half as old as time

wheedles its way down Threadneedle Street

 

and bridges lie low for fear of burning

and a million mobiles raise

their home-bound voices

 

and forests of Xmas trees,

chopped off at the root, encircle London,

closing in…

 

Once I knew a man

who wished his house

had two magical doors,

 

one leading to London,

one to Cornwall –

‘think of the travelling time we’d save…’

 

But London, my love,

has so many doors

all hitting the nail on the head,

 

London in its mysterious cloak of dark

not much darker than the light,

city where a painter

 

can only work on his ‘Crucifixion’ canvas

when he’s blind-drunk,

yes, that’ll be London, I think

 

 

Penelope Shuttle‘s most recent publication is Unsent: New and Selected Poems 1980 – 2012, from Bloodaxe Books.  She will be giving readings from Unsent next year at Bristol Poetry Festival, the Charles Causeley Festival and other venues.  She lives in Cornwall.