Hope's Eve

Hopes’ Eve

Dirty old river
must you keep rolling
beneath a setting sun
for the boy who waits…

Mod suited, Chelsea booted
outside the Friday night hum
of trains traversing this way… 
                              …and trains conversing that way.

This boy.
He knows these arteries.
The tides and the tracks 
of London’s bloodlines.
He can count the pulsed veins.

As he stands, he is so wondrous
that he puffs on two Strand 
cigarettes, sucks on a Trebor
mint and considers his tie. 

And then again, 
considers his tie.

When she finally appears
on the station steps, French
cropped, Mary Quant propped,
she is determined – a little shy.

Her first step
in monochrome,
her second sepia, 
her third Technicolor,
her fourth a kissed embrace
that forces the faces
of Big Ben to blush to a bow.

The jealous flower shop girls
of Waterloo scatter petals as they
walk to their cul-de-sacs of Kennington,
weeping into petticoats and singing 
solo in a blue weekend swoon.

Their moments will surely come…

But not tonight. 
This Friday night
is the 30th of July.

1966. 

Hope’s Eve.
 
Tomorrow, a Russian linesman
will wink at Bobby Moore launching 
Jules Rimet into a skidding Wembley sky.
Harold Wilson of Huddersfield
will finger his pipe and smile at it all.

And right here, now. 
Inside this pub underneath 
the cooling railway arches.
Over pints of Watney’s Pale Ale
and chipped glasses of Babycham –
Terry and Julie sparkle into each 
other’s eyes for the very first time.

Later, they will walk by that river,
talking in tongues until the dawn breaks
over Tower Bridge and a raven’s croak.

For an old England in new rags.