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A London Poem, kind of, by Britta Benson

We arrived in London yesterday and it struck me how much the city changes, every time I visit it with my son, because he has changed. Children change at lightening speed, a month makes a difference, a year is enough time for multiple transformations. So here’s my London poem, kind of. Not really about London, more about the priviledge of witnessing change.





A London Poem, kind of





Early morning coffee with my son

and a long chat, staring out of windows,

watching other people with our tired eyes,

the scene keeps changing as the words spill out.

He lets me have a glimpse of his universe,

just like that, without me asking.

I see London for the very first time

with a fifteen year old. The city has changed

beyond recognition. We don’t chase pigeons

on Trafalgar Square any more, instead,

we stir the froth of lattes, watch worlds go by,

and have the kind of easy conversation

that can only be unearthed after eight hours

stuck on the nightbus. I arrive in London

and see my boy for the first time clearly.

It’s raining. It’s beautiful. It’s liberating.

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