Leant forward into Spring,
bronze Nye argues a point;
his downcast index strong,
once tenable, now echo
of antique rhetoric.
Between squalls, brittle sun
calls daffodils to surface.
And policy is aired,
blown spinning, dancing
like so much precinct litter.
Going through the motions:
a ritual of shown hands,
iron phrasemongery
and hopeless resolution.
Each voice has its typeface.
In the hyphen of twilight,
a swim and steam room sweat;
certainty dissolves,
and lane discipline holds
hardening arteries at bay.
Solidarity steps out:
from corner to corner
anecdotes shape perspective.
An inverse ratio
of drink and reason.
Public transport man shuns taxis;
through arcades weaves his way
beyond the surly Taff:
from hotel to station,
the choiceless pick their brands.
