Halts the strollers on the Cobb,
Stays the fossil-hunter’s hammer mid-chop.
On the Prom, a mother gathers up
Her wriggling pack of dogs and tykes,
By force of will forces them
to measure out the distance of a minute.
All the Ones.
Only the rollers and the wicked gulls –
specked over the impertinent ancient arm
that pokes into a vastly more ancient sea –
tear rudely at the moment. Still, who cares?
This is our affair, not theirs.