It seemed that there were <br />As many cameras as faces <br />In the streets around Trafalgar Square. <br /> <br />The pavement below where we sat <br />On Saint Martin's steps <br />Flooded with tourists <br />Each time that traffic lights changed, <br />And the visiting folk <br />Danced their ritual; <br />A photographic Flamenco <br />In the city's summer streets. <br /> <br />My son and I, <br />Contented enough as spectators, <br />Mused about moving up through Soho, <br />Or perhaps Covent Garden, <br />But langour had blunted <br />Our Scottish edginess <br />And anchored us to <br />The ancient stone. <br /> <br />Talk and minutes <br />Passed pleasantly <br />Before we cartwheeled away <br />Like birds startled by <br />Nothing in particular.<br /><br />Robert Wylie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saint-martin-s-steps/
