mother country

It gets dark here at a quarter to four. London is old and filled with people who will never catch up to Henry’s Tower 1066 or Waterloo Bridge. In a moment she will take a cab to Oxford Street. Christmas. December has passed the point beyond which it looks pretty stupid, in the street with everyone watching, to not wear a hat, scarf, gloves; to not have blue wool spun over blue legs. From a distance London held a few things, slick reds and fire escapes and history itself. It still did, or held a sort of convenience instead, if distance can be reduced to what someone might decide will attract passers-by on a cheap but unfrequented street.

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