Waterloo Bridge

for lovers and cubists

A cross
A church
A broken bottle.
The house of secrets
reflected in bisected waters,
the trees, the trees, the trees, sprung
cranes that deliver bricks like longed for babies
and to your right, Hungerford Bridge, a wind harp singing soprano.

*    *    *                  

A gentle spell cast at every Rubicon crossing
by my husband, London, whom I still love.
Occasionally we consider divorce, but never simultaneously.
And he turns a blind eye to my thing with old Father Thames
who likes me to walk all over him,
toenails, London Bus Red.          Lacquered geisha,
his moist palm trailing knotweed, travelling swiftly up my leg.


Fiona Curran