Arrival Hall, Heathrow

Yes, I'm back in London, and will be here for the next ten days or so. Coming through customs into the UK frequently proves to be an interesting and lengthy proposition. Normally, I find myself in a queue with "helpful" signs indicating wait times spaced at ten minute intervals, telling me how long until I reach the head of the line. I know at least four of them exist, and who knows how many more might be behind closed doors. On the other hand, there have been those rare occasions when I have zipped through multiple retractable belt barriers without pausing to stop.

I will admit, however, that the most interesting time I spent waiting to gain admittance to the country occurred when I joined a queue that snaked, I swear, almost back to my plane. It provided plenty of opportunity to people watch, always a great way to amuse oneself.



Arrival Hall, Heathrow


Hundres of travelers
queue in Customs lines zigzagged:
a proper British maze

edges raw with children.
Ahead a phalanx of stands
like guard towers, drawbridges

bulwarking London still. On the perimeter
a Pakistani paces like a panther trapped,
shouts at a border agent

as if he could ride righteousness
into England. From an unseen scarp
a Queen's envoy, a Lancelot in coat and tie,

bears down on him prepared
to protect the kingdom from Visigoths
and holders of falsified visas.

An officer waves me forward,
peruses my own papers. Up front
nary a crossbow among the lot of them.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor