POETRY ON THE LAKE

Immigrant

November ’63: eight months in London.
I pause on the low bridge to watch the pelicans:
they float swanlike, arching their white necks
over only slightly ruffled bundles of wings,
burying awkward beaks in the lake’s water

I clench cold fists in my Marks and Spencer’s jacket
and secretly test my accent once again:
St James’s Park, St James’s Park, St James’s Park.

Fleur Adcock