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Personal poetry about the 21st of June.

Third Place Winner for London Society’s third year of Love Letters to London. Poetry Category.

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It’s the 21st of June.

My fingers pluck on your golden strings of harp sun,

Upside down on Greenwich hill with browning skin,

On a £16 Amazon chequered blanket mimicking our cherry cheeks,

We sit on the side with mud and wine stains, still, from Hampstead Heath,

Us closed fists, unravel.

My clammy flesh melts into a telescope,

My left eye pinches, the right cradles your old and new,

Positioned parades of clouds tickles glassy Canary Wharf,

David Hockney painted yellow rays comically prance around the Old Royal,

That stranger sits in solitude with his orange raincoat,

Just the hood, hugging his head, muting the curious cadence of school children at the observatory.

London is in the palm of my hands.

A final kiss between my four fingernails and the back of my thumb,