CHRISTMAS WEEK - Saturday Before...

Christmas In London




I always seemed to end up in London at Christmas time. Yes, I'm still mewling nostalgic on the mid-80s, the sour milk that festers melancholy like clockwork when it's pouring rain here in Vancouver, a depressing sponge of a town sometimes, and flavours the venom that seeps subtley through some of these older poems. But yes, there I was - deer in the headlights of Oxford Street - pushed along by the crowds - running into Harrods for refuge. It's easy to feel sorry for yourself with a cucumber sandwhich in hand, stirring tea, and silver angels floating overhead, trumpets at the ready, blaring to one and all, "how did you blow this one?" But, listening to relationship advice from holiday ornaments is not on my list of to-do's today.


ralph alfonso







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CHRISTMAS IN COVENT GARDEN


I was lost on Oxford St.
caught in the crush of the
Harrod's crowds, pushing me
through the hurrying mass
scarved and bundled,
The late afternoon twilight
awash in a green and red glow from
the Christmas windows
And suddenly there I was
at Tottenham Tube Station
and I walked up to the little
chip shop and I guess that
was dinner and I stumbled
down Charing Cross Road
and into Foyles, fumbling
through their labyrinth of
books and then
somehow onto the narrow
Covent Garden streets
and the Christmas Market
wooden agels rattling together
tourists with loud voices
pointing at things
I stopped to watch a little music box
two tiny skaters
a Strauss waltz
and then I nursed a little take-away
coffee, sitting on one of the
little benches, and up in the dark
of a London night, I saw
there was solitude in the moment
and I knew someone was there
for one quiet prayer


ralph alfonso