Waterloo

Dirty old river
must you keep rolling
under
a setting sun.

For the boy who waits
Mod suited,
Chelsea booted.

In the
relentless hum.

Of the trains coming this way.
And the trains going that way.

These are the arteries of London.
The melody of the city.

He is so nervous
that he lights two
Strand cigarettes.
Sucks a Trebor mint
and considers
His tie.

And considers 
His tie.

When she finally appears 
on the station stairs,
She is French cropped,
Mary Quant popped,
determined but shy.

Her first step is in monochrome,
the second sepia,
the third Technicolor.
The fourth
a kissed embrace.

That makes the face
of Big Ben
stop to a blush.

The streets of
Waterloo retreat
to the outskirts
of Kennington
and respectfully
close their eyes.

Because
this is the story
of Terry and Julie.
A Friday night,
here in 1963.

Because here 
might be forever!