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...
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