A wedding.

A picnic.

A street no one remembers

except those

who walked it.

The first footstep
through the opened doors,
and the city falls away.

Above me
the high white ribs of the ceiling
rise like the inside of a great ship
turned quietly toward heaven.

A queue of tourists
Curled along the stone walk,
maps folded in damp hands,
camera straps crossing their shoulders
like small pilgrim ropes.

Pigeons lifted and settled again
in the gray London air.