Covent Garden

The meeting has run on.

It’s late, he’s lost, a little bit.

I offer that I’ll walk him to the tube

I lodge near here, it’s on my way.


I say It’s great, this route

it takes you past a flower stall

that’s packing up this time of night.

They flog their stock so cheap it’s practically free.

He holds on while I dither picking daisies

marked at 50p a bunch.


A man sat by the stall is knocking back a can.


That’s Loz I say. His dog is Rosielove.

He told me that his wife fucked off

but he stays here, necks Woodpecker

which takes him to a sweeter place.


Rosielove is champing at a pigeon on the kerb.


Where d’you stand on city birds? I say.

Rats on wings with feet like spat-out gum?

Or do you like their blushing backs of necks

and wonder where it is they lay their eggs?


Pigeon pairs are roosting on the station roof.


At the entrance

underneath the moon and planes in tiny triangles of sky

he could kiss me as a scrumper steals a plum.

See these lips, would you not say they’re like the hips and hawes

that fruit in hedgerows when the winter’s coming on?


The street is all corners and shine.

Traffic stutters on the clutch

where people wait to cross the road

and each belisha flash is like a flower

picked apart to calculate

if love is true or not.


One thought on “Covent Garden

  1. juliabird April 12, 2008 / 8:56 pm

    … got lots of these poems, trying to square a city adulthood with my country roots. Laurie Lee is knocking around in this one.

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