[London, my beautiful] by F.S. Flint

[London, my beautiful]
by F.S. Flint

London, my beautiful,
it is not the sunset
nor the pale green sky
shimmering through the curtain
of the silver birch,
nor the quietness;
it is not the hopping
of birds
upon the lawn,
nor the darkness
stealing over all things
that moves me.

But as the moon creeps slowly
over the treetops
among the stars,
I think of her
and the glow her passing
sheds on the men.

London, my beautiful,
I will climb
into the branches
to the moonlit treetops,
that my blood may be cooled
by the wind.

PHOTO: St. James Park Lake, London, England, by Vitaliy Pozdeev, used by permission.