The Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square

Is now, as ever, the centre of somewhere...

But as well as being the iconic meeting place

It has now become a famously empty space.

Where once, for one hundred days

2,400 people enacted thousands of one- hour plays.

When merely sitting brooding in a chair,

Became a kind of truth to share,

With the lonely figure, set up there,

Staring down into the thronging square.

Some danced in spangles, or made themselves a spectacle,

Or made their body into a flowing song.

Or made grave music, or rocked along.

Or stood up to protest the potent truth

With banners and tee-shirts and placards…

Or silent prayer.

Freed balloons carried a freight of names,

As streams of bubbles, sparkling in the air...

Each hour of the day brought a different tale.

Those in the shadow hours, illuminated from below,

Caught on the internet, briefly peopled our dreams.

A sense of something invincible carried through the night

Into the coming dawn.

What was it? A shared feast of hopes and schemes,

This life, with two thousand and four hundred themes...