by now, of course, you’ll know
the way the day panned out
mid-morning, the mood dark
as skies, heavy as policing
abbey filled with the great and good
whose mouths taste of leather
whose souls are spreadsheets
their world an unending transaction
who watch the robe presented
to a rough sleeper curled in a doorway
on Euston Road his filthy sleeping bag
laid upon the monarch’s shoulders
the holy oil, brought up the aisle
in a dinghy found on Dover beach
to Canterbury, life-jacketed, sodden,
who drips salt water and the echo of prayers
in Albanian, Dari, Farsi, and homegrown
poverty over the heads of the congregation
the jewelled sword of offering
the bracelets of sincerity and wisdom
pawned for foodbanks in forgotten towns
where bread and tinned goods count for more
than any circus
that Black Power salute
a thing of wonder
nightingale singing in Berkeley Square
the Thames running out to the sea
© Steve Pottinger 6th May 2023