Are strange - and by the nights I mean the hours
When London shuts itself to foreign sights
From eight o'clock or so - when all the flowers
Are closed against the not yet quite here dark.
Those times are when it would be best to stroll
An almost closed and yet wide open park
And sit with you upon a shady knoll
Watching the clouds go by and people stream
Into the Tube and back into their homes
Skimmed out of London City like the cream
Off milk, as planes to aerodromes
Dive sparkling down. It's strange to watch alone;
As if my sense of sight were overgrown.
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