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

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