The momentum of the day
Pulsates
With the rhythmic ticking
Of the huge clock,
Big Ben strikes thrice
With sonorous depth.
The mass crowds seethe below,
In columns,
Rushing this way and that,
Intent on their purposeful
Business of the day.

In Hyde Park, beneath the shade
Of the massive oaks
And London plane trees,
In splashes
Of afternoon sun,
The pigeons flock,
Squabbling
Over scattered crumbs.

Crumbs dispersed
By the old, grey haired
Woman.
Her day,
Singular,
Her pleasures,
Few,
The hem of her dress
Frayed,
Her coat,
Worn.
.

Alone
And unseen,
By the teeming crowd,
Standing there
Amid the noisy pigeons.
Intent,
Her singularity,
Her isolation,
Complete….
Despite
The clamor and momentum
Of the busy
English day.

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki,NZ.
15 July 2022