A dozen raised cherry-pickers
in a lit yard at dusk, in a circle:
you might say, a concentration,
a conclave, an acclaim

whereas this dump of dayglo
bollards and cones, like an off-
handed cast of I Ching: a mishmash,
an abandonment, a disdain.

What’s the plural of many, when what
we make turns to itself, without us,
come into its own? Not hoards now
but hordes of the things.

By Portway Docks we pass a fair field full
of auto-opportunities, sans number plates,
all blandish, brand and gleam
and less identity

than the emperor’s porcelain army,
each of which possessed at least
(was possessed by) a face.
Your face, it could be,

in the windscreen, yours and mine.
Our names on a green surtitle. Drive
carefully. Abundance glimpsed
in passing like a mile-

long TV showroom window flickering
in slightly differing widths and tones
and definitions. So our things
become us, we

them. Do what they do. Smile.

Dearest reader! Our newsletter!

Sign up to our newsletter for the latest content, freebies, news and competition updates, right to your inbox. From the oldest literary periodical in the UK.

You can unsubscribe any time by clicking the link in the footer of any email you receive from us, or directly on info@thelondonmagazine.org. Find our privacy policies and terms of use at the bottom of our website.
SUBSCRIBE