Something of the faded dandy
hangs about God’s moth-eaten evening coat,
his worn-out cloth-uppers.
He seems to be cruising lost time
in search of fellow flâneurs
who might remember him
from the good old days
before he dyed his hair. He holds out
a threadbare mauve suede glove
as if begging forgiveness
from the crowds of memories
pushing past him in the street.
Thinking I’ve seen him before somewhere
and feeling vaguely ashamed
of the white silk handkerchief
overflowing the pocket of my suit,
I slip him a few quid
to buy himself a coffee and croissant.
A sudden violent shudder
passes through God’s frail form
as he turns himself into
a flowering magnolia tree,
its creamy white petals bending low
in seasonal farewell.
