For love of Jonathan
Outside the Old Vic
intent on getting a seat in the gallery
we exchange sidelong glances
a busker’s fingers dance on the yellowed
keys, on an old accordion.
My companions baggy linen jacket
shouts intellectual, the threadbare knees
of his trousers whisper beware.
Later full of language and laughter
we idle across WaterlooBridge
watch the reflections of the city
melt into the depths of the Thames.
In memory of Jonathan Wren
