Twenty-three Tents
Twenty-three Tents A line of twenty-three tatty little tents Most of them red under a coating of tyre dust Kicked out of the shelter of the colonnade. Too untidy for a 350 million quid refurb They huddle like winter starlings on a wire Along the builder’s fence. The occupants of twenty-three tatty little tents Most of them pallid under a coating of tyre dust Take in the vista of St. Peter’s Square The sterile open space, the designer street furniture The shining war memorial, the smart-bins, And ask for a pound, a pastie, a cup of tea A quick blast of Clockwork Orange to keep out the cold A line of twenty-three tatty little tents Most of them red under a coating of tyre dust That I almost forgot to notice As I hurried to be on time for a book launch November 2024