On Paddington

She stops by the bronze, an instant
brief and bitter as espresso, makes her
sign, one hand cups a point that shines
from these acts of devotion
the other in the stoop remembers
a time when trust came easily
slim fingers inch through years
‘how much she’s grown’.

Gesture, secret symbols, palm to face
human without psalms in
a world that needs its gods
she rides the ache of worn out clichés.
This metal icon reminds her of the child
still half asleep and carried from the car
yet cannot understand this lovely sad
that keeps her at the statue lost in prayer.