Circle Line rambles comfortingly

round the City's historic places

taking its time like a

pre-Beeching branch train.

 

Grey autumn day in east London.

From out of the darkness

and traffic of Commercial Street

we’re immersed in Van Gogh,

you lured by his sunflowers,

vases, bedroom, starry nights.  

 

Light illuminates art but

can dazzle, drive you mad.

Shot himself at just thirty-seven,

took two days to die.

Doomed rock star artist

we all think we know,

 

pictures on our bedsit walls.

Coffee in church crypt,

cheap Greek vegan lunch

in pricey, hipster market.

Sculpture of refugees

in authentic boat.

 

Still human, this district

of Irish and Huguenot

silk weavers, stone’s throw

yet miles away from

Liverpool Street’s

grasping monoliths.