So we pressed on, launched, with girded loins.
Days blurred as we bused clay
from N9 to SE17 at £1.50 a trip.
Fearing Oz flu we registered
with the NHS and got shots
at miraculous short notice. Our health
was no problem, but neoliberalism
and global warming were: a picket line
blocked our venue and the melting Arctic
sucked warmth from London. Numbers were down
but not out. Earworms thrived. Don’t go breaking my …
couldn’t if I tried. / Il neigeait, il neigeait,
il neigeait. / Take any heart take mine, / snow
falling faintly and faintly falling, upon all the living
and the dead. / And Pharaoh’s heart was hardened. / As snow
in Aprylle, That falleth on the flowr / melts away like
snow in May as if there were no such cold thing.
And it grew warm again. In St James’s Park
seagulls were on thin ice and fat grey squirrels
froze like water dragons. And all the while
(To be continued)