The Statues of Buckingham Palace

One day, old lion, we will stir ourselves,
shake off the bronze and be flesh.

The sash across my breast is blue I think, my hair
the dirty blonde of your pelt.

First we will look over our shoulders - I'll smile
shyly at the young men who've lounged a century

by the pool, then, without comment, you'll
roll your great shoulders and pad down onto the Mall.

I'll keep my hand warm in the rough tangle
of your mane. We walk past straight-backed generals

dusting the last of the black paint from their coats, while
the gentlemen of state adjust their breeches and steel

swords, clear their throats, and scramble down to the grass.
Along the Embankment we're joined by a few nervous
poets and the occasional nurse. The light is flat, Apollos
blink their olive eyes and begin to tune their lyres;

the muses and graces group with soft calls
to touch each other's pale new skins

with their fingertips. Mythical beasts lope beside us
and the Thames is full of mermaids in pearled scales.

We turn up towards Trafalgar Square, joined
by a Jesus or two, who have clambered

down from the fronts of churches. A little bemused, they rub
their palms and shiver. The military gentleman give them
overcoats,

clucking under their waxed moustaches. The Jesuses bob
their heads in thanks, feel in the pockets for tobacco.

Then everyone goes to watch as you and I, old lion, climb the
      steps
to the Gallery and whisper steeply at the key hole, waking the
      pictures.

Imogen Robertson (1973 - )