A London bright with April crowds,
With bridges arching north to south,
And skies a Hockney kind of blue:
A day for hitching heads to clouds.
We never really meant to stop,
There was no choice: we wandered in
And stop. We did. In charcoal grey,
And claret rich as Thames and Fleet.
The sound was drowned, and heartbeats slowed.
The room was emptied just for us.
I heard you breathing, knew the pulse
Of blood had found its perfect rate.
Outside the room a London boomed.
Inside we merged, surrounded, gripped.