for Lee Harwood at 70
The sergeant under the umbrella splashes Bovril
as he carries a cup to the private on duty.
It’s all part of the service of the services,
it seems, in this dream that you’re marched into.
The Cenotaph crouches under billowing silks
as a new red bus putters up
The colony of Belisha beacons flashes in harmony
lukewarm but welcome like a pie.
Everybody’s aunt assembles by the ambulances,
masks tested for when the city turns to mustard.
Their perforated snouts chorus submarine melodies,rubbery inhalant hallelujahs! The last pleasure
boat is moored, the boathouse padlocked. Timeis serving time, commandeered for the duration.