In front of
the museum
free now for Cardiffians
where John Tripp hid
his bicycle clips among the pillars
and the statue of Lloyd George
greens slowly in the drizzle
I saw Tom Jones once
eluding fans among the bushes.
Heart of the
Welsh universe
its white
Portland replicated
perfectly in India
where the architect made a quick
rupee reselling his plans.
The past concentrates
on these slabs.
Memory of marches, meetings, passions,
hired coaches like cream river-boats
the steps cut like a ghat on the Ganges.
When the sea rises
the tide will reach here with ease.
Peter Finch
The
Steps
is taken from Finch's Seren collection Useful, where an
earlier version of the poem complained about the high costs of admission
to one of the greatest of our national institutions. The National
Assembly has, however, now abolished all museum admission charges
and visitor figures have soared.
