It’s half-term and the Southbank is filled with families, predominantly children with mothers pushing a pushchair, juggling bags, a baby and older sibling doing their own thing. I’m standing by the elevator, several women encamp the entrance and as the glass shaped cube arrives, kids and mothers disembark, and others charge into the empty space. I decide to wait for the next one and watch a mother lift a child out of the pushchair, setting him free. The child chooses to roam, bounding, falling, rolling, whatever means is required to embark on his world of adventure; a vast terrain of ground inhabited by strangers and giants.
I leave her running after the child, a moments distraction from the news of the day. A split in the Labour Party has opened up a new space for seven MPs to create a so-called Independent Party. Another news that leaves me shaken - a podcast regarding the 40 or so souls left in Guantanamo Bay, 10 years after Obama had created an opportunity for a country to be healed, has now been frustrated by the Trump administration who seemingly have no problem in leaving a stain on mankind in the spirit of safer borders rhetoric.
I come out of the singing lift into the National Poetry Library and I’m guided into the WS Graham installation and I’m not sure how much of the words I hear from the librarian, I just find myself in this incredible, imagined, recreated space of WS Graham’s cottage.