I like to feel anonymous in a city
of strangers and customers in the street.
Today I need to cross over Cooks Gardens
which is steep going on a likable pavement.
At the top I draw my long black coat
tight around the waist, against the cold wind.
In the middle distance is St. Paul's,
a church of redbrick certainties for a few.
Below me is the eight-lane cinder track
where a few lonely figures are out training.
The four floodlight towers are just there,
like silent spectators at a long-lost cricket match;
a light shining in the darkness at a day-night game.
St. Paul's, though, may well be the Light of the World.
-July,2016.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem