London Poem: Day 3

20 August

The sounds in Piccadilly Circus
Rumble down the little valley
Of aged stone.
Cutting through, a thousand voices
Rise up: the ghosts of London
Mutter of times now gone.
We walk, saying nothing,
Letting time speak for us.
History spoke too much
For two people learning
About each other, so
We slipped into a Japanese restaurant
Here no one spoke.
We were alone with each other,
Alone with the voices.
Being came softly;
What we had rose above
The world around.
The large bowls steamed,
And,
Speech became little more
Than hurdles to explain what we already
Knew lived without the need for words.

©Keelan Crampsey

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keelancrampsey

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