Wellington Square
A couple are near the centre of the Gardens
like a pair of statues half-covered in the creeping
gloom.
They might be here for the night rather than in one of the
shop entrances or alcoves or carparks across town,
in a spot not part of the architecture outside
which is getting more amorphous as the evening ticks on,
looming and black.
It’s all quiet, apart from their occasional laughter.
One of them passes a bottle of Old Rosie to the other.
The dark forms around the square seem to lean in
but I stay where I am,
the more it all begins to look like
an image repeatedly photocopied,
two figures in a flood of static;
this may only be what today affords for them,
and as they share a deep kiss they’re permanent.
Everything else here seems senseless.
A couple are near the centre of the Gardens
like a pair of statues half-covered in the creeping
gloom.
They might be here for the night rather than in one of the
shop entrances or alcoves or carparks across town,
in a spot not part of the architecture outside
which is getting more amorphous as the evening ticks on,
looming and black.
It’s all quiet, apart from their occasional laughter.
One of them passes a bottle of Old Rosie to the other.
The dark forms around the square seem to lean in
but I stay where I am,
the more it all begins to look like
an image repeatedly photocopied,
two figures in a flood of static;
this may only be what today affords for them,
and as they share a deep kiss they’re permanent.
Everything else here seems senseless.
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