Liza
Costello

                                 We entered London

                                 to see the sun in a room

                                 – a dignified hostage,

                                 generous in its captivity,

                                 turning even the mood golden.

                                 Have you ever before seen

                                 people bask in an art gallery?

                                 Then a drug-eased daylong flight,

                                 and we were knocking along

                                 a skinny, wilful road

                                 through astonishing jungle,

                                 orange flash of a monk’s robes,

                                 on and on until the light went

                                 and the sound of sea came.

                                 The first guesthouse took us in.

                                 In the bath, a spider

                                 hunched, but we slept deep

                                 until omelettes on the beach.

                                 There above was the sun again, freed

                                 by the sky to be small as it dared

                                 and too bright to gaze on.