Fleur Adcock

Immigrant November ’63: eight months in London. I pause on the low bridge to watch the pelicans: they float swanlike, arching their white necks over only slightly ruffled bundles of wings, burying awkward beaks in the lake’s water. I clench cold fists in my Marks and Spencer`s jacket and secretly test my accent once again: … Continue reading “Fleur Adcock”

Immigrant

November ’63: eight months in London.
I pause on the low bridge to watch the pelicans:
they float swanlike, arching their white necks
over only slightly ruffled bundles of wings,
burying awkward beaks in the lake’s water.

I clench cold fists in my Marks and Spencer`s jacket
and secretly test my accent once again:
St James’s Park; St James’s Park; St James’s Park.

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