Mary Hobson

The Crowd

Nothing can stale its infinite variety.
Stand by the barrier
and you’ll see
a woman struggling home
ome chip-board in a carrier,
teenagers phoning,
a man with several children, moaning,
the whole great thriving, skiving, late-arriving, heaving, 
thieving, grieving, wife deceiving, loving, shoving crowd
of office workers, some in burkhas,
a conference of social workers,
a girl from Piccadilly Circus.
Humanity is on the march.
How can there be
Another version of the face?
And still they come.
In every shape and size, from saint to scum,
intent on being where they belong.
They know their place,
if that’s a semi with a little dome
or just an arch.
Oh, how could you prefer
the endless, friendless countryside
in which variety means shades of green
(unless it’s died).
Come, join me in my song,
You fellow-travelling throng,
survey the sweating scene
with all its young and old and straight and gay
and say
you love the over-populated grey.
Out loud.
Let’s hear it for the crowd.