Some Creative had a vision of her here
above the bar – seventeen varieties of tequila,
a basket of fresh limes at her feet.

Was she reclaimed from a disused church?
Or fashioned in a factory? Her little finger is lost
at the knuckle.

On Lower Marsh the offices are turning out,
the skies of Waterloo grow velvety,
the evening alive with what might be.

Positioned on the window ledge, a plaster
dancing girl flings up her hand, mid-rumba.
Come in, she says, This is Havana!

The Virgin too extends her arms
and contemplates the limes. Our Lady
Queen of Sorrows, Queen of Hope.