Daniel says "it’s dead" but Antonio says
He and his chisel and his resin, ivory, inlaid marquetry,
emptied onto the pavement
for the future of another life.
We watch shouting, banging, loading,
a lorry races, a man races, a tear races.
His friend has taken everything in the shop and
all that remains is crumpled paper.
Wall shadows of vanished cabinets,
that fluff of no known origin in the corner.
Daniel says "there was once a sea of white here—"
a reflection of the sun in the sky on the soul.
Hoards in white t-shirts stained, splattered with blues and
reds and tangerines.
Violins and teenage drums.
Spilled ochre rice
tahini slipping on cobbles
shining in the bronze light.
Daniel says "Admiral Vernon, Dolphin, Roger’s—"
London’s cold bazaars
hawkers, shysters, brilliants, cheats.
World Experts of beautiful and twisted things.
Voices now swallowed up in this desolate Spring.
We watch a sea of grey
pavement reflecting stone sky
Daniel says, “They’re not coming back.”