Why I love London
It’s not the sound of old Benjamin
striking through the improving London air.
Nor the lions- guarding Nelson- sat within
the grandeur of their monumental lair.
It’s snaking river’s broad and flowing main
can barely find the passage to my heart,
and the bridge that towers o’er that nurturing vein
as a span to my desire, falls apart.
There to the East: the ancient Norman tower,
replete with headless ghost of Anne Boleyn
holds no allure or lasting sacred power
to make my passion, tremor, stir or spin.
I love it not for all its splendour owned.
I love London, because it is my home.
When your tresses have surrendered to time’s
unrelenting, roving, whitening brush,
and your once smooth forehead has been undermined
by the deep lines ploughed in its headlong rush.
When crow’s feet in their stealth have had their walk
around the pleasure of your sapphire eyes,
and beauty’s mirror cannot help but balk
at your hanging jowls, which it can’t disguise.
When a drooping replica of your proud chin
forms a hideous rim around your lower face,
I know my heart will keep its store within
of love for you times wiles cannot erase.
Times proudest yield is the fruit of constant change;
mine, is the love that falls outside its range.
Gary Borck is from the UK. He teaches in China and writes poetry wherever he hangs out in the Solar System. He has nearly been published in 867 editorials. He has had poems fully published in the online journal: Grand Little Things and is soon to be published in The Society of Classical Poets.