Poem

London

Your eyes are lined up in the dark
like cavalry; I draw the curtains
so you don’t see in.

You’re luminous, and looking
every which way:
up and down the streets

and into corners, under bridges,
down into the darkness of the Thames
and all along its length.

Lithe and sleek and slit-eyed, curious
of every twig and turn
on your least lovely street,

you creep about, snaking your way
in shadows, lying in wait
by the back door like a curfew.

Daylight sees you yawn, open your jaws
and let the sun
dive into your dark heart,

throw out wide green parks
like blankets, shawls,
and sling the river into bright silvery arcs.

But later, darkness falling,
you’ve a mind to still the boats
and throw away their keys;

you put a man down on the dungeon door
to keep old men from lying there
to sleep. You’re restless;

still you hum and haw your way
around the alleyways,
look in at cracks and keyholes, keep

the candles lighted
and the glasses filled. You flicker
in the lights across the bridge,

the flashing neon Piccadilly wears.
You never sleep, but maybe
let your chin sink down onto your knees

until the first light glimmers at the door
and then you jerk awake, and rise,
and back to work:

water to sluice the pavement
and a half-lit cigarette,
the smoke of the city, to begin the day.

Sophie Reynolds
London, UK

Sophie Reynolds has studied English at York University and Creative Writing at Goldsmiths College, London. As a writer she plays with many genres, but thinks of herself as a poet. She has recently been published in Magma 43, and read her work at the Poetry Library and the Troubadour.

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