A storm came in
and light I’d never
known before
spread everywhere,
bringing that
which I couldn’t
have anticipated
or seen approaching.

Then on a path,
on two tree trunks in,
I found an entry point,
shifted through it
and took with me
the leaves that had stirred
ahead of my feet.

I took with me
the man on Peckham Rye
who sorts through the bins,
the lady who runs
three times a day
away from her mind
and a magpie flapping
at the edge of my vision.

Then I went back
and netted the placeholders
left by the bokeh behind
the Routemaster 12.

Inside again
and right in the centre,
the curves of the walls
stretched out farther,
farther and farther.

Because some things
hold fast. They never
implode or blow apart.

On Peckham Common

At dawn, while the city was rising,
a dream of fog fell on the Common,
draped the lake, clouded pathways.

Trees rode the waves,
everything was taken to a new plane
while I was inspirited but shoreless.

Walking led me to an understanding
when I saw that joy could set in water
and melt instantly under stabs of sun.

That I could leave, an apparition,
never seen, heard of or a part
of this terrain.