London Impressions by Arthur Nortje

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 London Impressions by Arthur Nortje

 

I

 

Out of the Whitehall shadows I pass

into a blaze of sun as sudden as fountains.

 Between the bronze paws of a lion

a beatnik stretches his slack indifferent muscles.

 

Nelson's patina of pigeon shit

hardly oppresses that plucky sailor. Cloudbanks

lazily roll in the blue heavens beyond.

The birds home in on seas of seed.

 

Foil tins float on the dusty water.

The walls are full of faces and thighs.

I smoke a Gold Leaf close to the filter,

viewing dimly the circles of traffic.

 

The isle is full of Foreign Noises

that jangle in trafalgar square,

England expects every tourist

to do his duty now the Pound is sickly.

 

II

 

A girl plays games with mirrors

 in Hyde Park while I'm half-suggestive

 with the dolly scanning a volume idly.

In the flare of an instant it takes to light

a cigarette:

against her treetrunk comes to lean

the ugliest bloke that you have ever seen.

Predictably they disappear

through the distance of August green.

 

The nymph on the grass behind

proves her point by blinding my return look.

 She picks her black bag up and drifts on further,

not helpful as to whether I should follow.

Meanwhile a huge Alsatian sniffs my loose boots,

the gentleman with the leash exchanges gossip.

 

Sun, you are all I have:

the grass already welcomes the brown leaves.

I do not want to cross the road again,

having learnt the value of other faces,

acquired the pace and tone of other voices.

 

And big red buses; I thought I would never catch

sight of the gentle monsters

When I was young and shackled for my sharpness

in the Union of South Africa.