Rupert Loydell writes

AT TATE MODERN

for Oliver

He can remember the smog from when he was three, and the room full of smoke and light reminds him of crossing the road, slow moons of car lights approaching, holding his father’s hand tight.

We cannot see far enough although the city looks beautiful at night from here, grids of red and white lamps and lights, with distorting river in front.

I do not want to walk any more but the bus in the rain was all fogged up, too slow. I couldn’t see a thing, had forgotten anyway.