Right of Way

We march across to Trafalgar Square with indignation

At the cold tightening our hands, shortening our breath.

You dodge the incoming churning bus that drowns out the pigeons’ coo

I hold back – before trailing after you, evading

Goggle eyed tourists that bunch at the kerb like loose change,

And take refuge behind a statue.

Bodies split and rejoin around the base

Then continue in an endless stream.

Wind undulates through the city’s cracks;

An onslaught as Boreas unhinges his jaw

And chases us into the crowded Christmas markets,

White receipts and wrappers lift and settle,

Refusing to melt.