Immigrant

Fleur Adcock

November ’63: eight months in London.
I pause on the low bridge to watch the pelicans;
they float swanlike, arching their white necks
over only slightly ruffled bundles of wings,
burying awkward beaks in the lake’s water.

I clench cold fists in my Marks and Spencer’s jacket
and secretly test my accent once again:
St Jame’s Park; St Jame’s Park; St Jame’s Park.