Hyde Park

Hyde Park on a Sunday when the sun’s got its boot on your neck.

kids on plastic scooters scraping the hot concrete like they’re trying to file the day down to nothing. bicycles with training wheels squeaking through the legs of mums and dads who just want a bench before the ice cream turns to sweet sludge in their fists.

black birds—crows, magpies, whatever the fuck they are—lined up like old lags waiting for parole, black beaks, black feathers shining like cheap suits, eyeing the crusts that drop from toddlers in sunhats the size of beach umbrellas and nappies sagging like wet laundry.

a thousand bodies packed on this strip
of grass that smells like fresh mower blades and sweat.

blokes without hats going lobster-pink, dust sticking to the grease on their tattoos—anchors, roses, some bird’s name they can’t remember. bees drunk on pollen, fat and slow, bumping into each other like winos leaving the boozer at closing time.

over the serpentine the mayflies hang in clouds, useless and shimmering, while tadpoles jerk around under ducks that look pissed off with the heat and swans that glide like they own the joint and know it.

down by the big tent the horses stand there all polished and proud, ribbons in their manes, riders in red coats sweating through the wool, faces like they’re chewing on lemons.  kids howling at clowns in blue and yellow fluff, juggling oranges on monocycles that gleam like new money, big red smiles painted on white faces running with sweat and despair.

it’s beautiful,

everything loud and sticky and half-dead,

and nobody’s got the guts to admit they’d rather be home with a cold beer and the curtains drawn.

ten quid for ice creams,
my children for the summer,
back home to mom soon.