A banker walking up Old Broad Street
in a close fitting suit of stained glass blue,
a shade of blue so exquisite, so perfect,
so unusual, so undeniably beautiful,
setting off a white shirt, pink tie, black shoes,
the blue of peacocks and Ionian lagoons,
the blue of Tuscan skies, but not the blue
of money. No, never the blue of money.
The Cornhill Well
I met a man on Bishopsgate. Nice suit,
I said, but where did all the money go?
Turn left, he said, down Cornhill. Between
two banks you might find an old well. Down there
you won’t find any of the money or
any of the men responsible. Thanks,
I said, that’s really helpful. No problem,
he said, but don’t let on that I told you.
Michael Shann has been a member of Forest Poets for the past seven years and has had two books of poems published by the Paekakariki Press. His book of Walthamstow poems was published in June 2015 and has just been reprinted.