Condoleezza slept last night on Hope Street.
People carriers, engines running, discreet:
the Norman cavalry in abeyance.
Day-glo jacketed foot soldiers block the path
with a firm request and cheery laugh,
seconded by the subtle creak of Kevlar.
A displaced ceorl, I humbly change tack,
skirting my old strip on a less direct track:
taking the long way round to breakfast.
By Martin Malone