Faces. You can’t pretend a sea of ants
Streams past the park, filling the avenue
With sound and colour. Hope against the dark
Once mocked, derided, pilloried and spurned
Now beats against your ribs in breathless pants
Of anticipation, as marchers force through
Freezing air, one infinite rainbow’s arc.
High up, safe in a warm hotel bedroom,
The moon in your mirror, like a lodestone
Draws in the source of light, the powerful
Confluences of the day just ended,
The dormant fires of once lost dawns to come,
A scattering of starlight in your eyes.
The traditional London demonstration route passes along Park Lane. In the course of the great 2 million strong anti war demonstration hotel residents, in evening dress, clutching champagne glasses could be seen on the balconies of the hotels observing the riff raff below.