This time a bit more of a touristy type deal than a bedraggled zombie shuffle through the nightlife deal.
Starting off with Big Ben and Buckingham.
There’s still flowers on the bridge,
a little tension in the air.
Plenty of cops on patrol.
Big Ben towers overhead, always looks a little tilted in every photograph.
The palace itself is mobbed by travellers with selfie sticks
hoping to get a shot with the guard right as it changes.
We’re just on time to see a parade of fuzzy hats and bayonets go marching past
to the steady drum beat, striding with pride.
Next up, the National Gallery,
Rembrandts and Michaelangelos abound,
in hallowed halls, divine faces staring down at both the wide-eyed and the disinterested alike
with the same oil-on-canvas disdain.
Teenagers have to compete with arts students for a sliver of couch space.
One disappears into their iPhone, the other into her sketchbook
opting to bring back a piece of the Renaissance in pencil lines
instead of Instagram pixels.
Out in Trafalgar Square, breakdancers spar with political activist rallies
for audiences, dope beats mixing with the call
to stand up against racism and inequality.
Traffic is still difficult to reckon with
and pedestrians become sprinters at the drop of a hat.
Across the Thames, the Imperial War Museum stands tall with cannons poised outside
and a shard of the Berlin wall takes a solemn seat on the path up to the entrance.
While I’m inside, I learn that one of my great-grandfathers
was gassed during the Great War.
He carried a rattle in his lungs for the rest of his days.
Finally, the West End
Art Deco Restaurants that look like you’d easily find Noel Coward writing in a corner, brandy glass in hand, dissecting his fellow diners with knife-and-fork eyes.
Dinner service before The Play That Goes Wrong, where
everyone loses their collective shit.
“If you’ve eaten the raspberry ripple ice cream during the interval,
please seek medical help immediately.”
As the play falls to pieces (intentionally).
Enough of that.
On to Scotland.