Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

London 2020

Confined to the same streets, I glean details,

snap the gilded bas reliefs of parish arms

on lamp-posts, benches on the Embankment

changing from duck to sphinx to camel going east.

Looking up I’ve caught cupolas, Justice, Art,

Geometry, both draped and nude, old wars’

bronze memorials and, in front of palaces,

arcs of wallflowers edging tulips going over.

The finely-crafted wrought iron gates

and grilles of our secret powerful and rich

have been revelatory, their curlicues

and spikes a refinement of exclusion.

I’ve captured Clement Danes’ electric bells

bouncing childhood rhymes around the Aldwych

but spared you abandoned restaurants,

their dried-up skimmia in forsaken troughs.

I’ve skipped all the shop windows blinded

with chipboard, promises to be back soon,

to focus on once-neglected things, distract

a fretting heart which doesn’t know what’s next.

Look, here’s a letterbox, deco, and another,

arts & crafts. Draw comfort from these apertures,

so elegantly dressed for bills, news, billets doux,

when all you love are elsewhere, out of reach.