Trafalgar Square

today’s walk to work—
a fallen plane leaf
flattened on wet stones

bright reflections—
dazzles of umbrellas
making a new rainbow

yesterday’s artists
leaving chalk ghosts
on the damp pavements



bare branches
a magpie’s black and white
against the pale sky

each green holly leaf
holding last night’s harvest–
a basket of snow

sun singles
each budding twig
in the tangled beech



It’s been too long and guilt,
thick as mildew, sets in
until the black box and the desk-top
talk to each other, invisibly.
My business is theirs, translated
into updates of slow crackle and purr.
I’d prefer cats but today this has to be:
one eye on poems of dystopia,
one on the tenses of the screen.



Publicity recycles his old photo, dating
from the cover of the book before last before last;
morose, poetic, haunted, contemplating
the glories he’d missed out on in the past.

D. A. Prince

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  D.A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.