The Ambassadors

It wasn’t until she stepped up to the guilt edge

and knelt that I looked for something more.

The Holbein worked her. The crowds looked on

as a blood red skirt rode above

knees and impossible heels twisted to reveal another world.

Two guards, suited, seemingly appearing from nowhere

helped her back to feet that disappeared with the

echoes of a gallop lost to the richness of marble.

I was sure we’d met before; known each other somewhere,

sometime, as I stepped up, took my turn, and for the briefest

of seconds lent forward to flirt with the work

where I struggled against the brush and ancient pigment.

We decided on a dog leg for our return;

criss-crossing the country the long way to

avoid the inevitable crowds that

would line our way. We lost the game.

Row upon row of hapless cars pulsed

from between towers, from arcades, from centres.

The news led with famine, then the weather

and then the blocked arteries or motorways. Nothing

changes; the season was alight. The sun was at our backs

as we passed beneath the footbridge leading to other lands.

And we looked forward, on towards the darkness

as the wheels turned slowly like heartbeats over rosary.