Saint Martin's Steps Poem by Robert Wylie

It seemed that there were
As many cameras as faces
In the streets around Trafalgar Square.

The pavement below where we sat
On Saint Martin's steps
Flooded with tourists
Each time that traffic lights changed,
And the visiting folk
Danced their ritual;
A photographic Flamenco
In the city's summer streets.

My son and I,
Contented enough as spectators,
Mused about moving up through Soho,
Or perhaps Covent Garden,
But langour had blunted
Our Scottish edginess
And anchored us to
The ancient stone.

Talk and minutes
Passed pleasantly
Before we cartwheeled away
Like birds startled by
Nothing in particular.