A man botched up from sticks and bones –
all angles, elbows pointing out,
and one leg twisted round its mate
like ivy round a tree.
As we come abreast of him, I see
the sleeveless denim jacket, skinny arms,
pale and freckle -spotted, his white face
wet with effort, clenched like a closed fist.
“You’ll walk with me,” a child’s voice
slurred around the edges,
a statement, not an invitation.
We stand still.
He finds a solid anchor for his crutch
then drags his tangled limbs to follow it.
We move forward just an inch or two.
His name is Tim and he was born again
ducked in the winter river last December.
Three crucifixes hang round his neck
like winners’ medals.
The square is transient space , where every hour
a thousand different purposes collide
and split away. A place to walk across
or cycle through, which only takes a moment.
It takes us half an hour to get across.
“ Born again” he mutters , “I’m born again”
over and over.
A child cries out – a yelp of pain –
head-high above the flinching crowd
a flock of pigeons whirr like shrapnel.
I watch them swing a circuit round the sun.
When I turn back to look at Tim