I have an epiphany:
there are no kings in East London

Late on, when the children
have been slaughtered
or at least thrown like gold
into the desert

I see wise men leaving,
having made no deal
even in their dreams
but rejoicing

and a star following,
or maybe a celebrity
getting out

I go back to sheltering the sheep –
the few that remain –
singing sacred songs
and welcoming strangers
in case they are angels

But something has changed:
I am no longer outside
on my own

I head for the future
holding a tiny piece of heaven
in the centre of my hand