On the Embankment

Turner
in his little boat
with rum
and oarsman
and his back to London
passed his later years
on Chelsea Reach

they’ve built
the spy house there
with bare-faced splendour
point blank cheek
where Carlyle struggled
with the revolution
– French –

and Texas
millionaires
can once again look out
contented
their green back porch
protected
piece of garden

Thomas Moore’s
Who found Utopia
here
before
a little further on
the headsman

*

the traffic roars
its fond farewells
to London
past school playground
wired higher
than a prison

along the river bank
where Sisley’s
ruined Irish girl
crouched
like hundreds more
attempting to decide

and now on low tide
mud
my ancestors
could freely search
for anything
abandoned

the gulls print out
their patterns
in striped footprints
familiar
from the uniforms
convicts wore

Clapham Junction

where the north
was always there
and ready
waiting
but never to be seen

the only colour
Coleman’s mustard
only distraction
house high
a painted Oxo cube

the grey brick
needing cover
silvered like shrapnel
burnt
at edges

impossible windows
broken blackened
far worse than anything
they imagined
as the north

and all of it
invisible
from their carriage
window
en route to London

to be settled
for the day
at Mansion House
The Strand
Cornhill Holborn

every street
Threadneedle
where the rich
could pass through
more easily than a camel