London Bridge

To wake beneath a bridge, absurd Understanding not a single word Of language lacking meter, grammar An ageing cuckolds pleading stammer Sunrise denied sweet fogs corona Beneath this bridge in Arizona No clip-clop of carts passing hoofs Nor chimney plumes o’er distant roofs My pen long dry, my muse aroused I roamed the streets and slowly browsed The faces and the odd attire No sign of Big Bens silent spire Our muse laments how history crept O’er yellowed pages as we slept ©1/6/2023 Shakespeare in 2023 Poetry Contest