St Francis of Hyde Park

Here's another London vignette...

I saw St. Francis in Hyde Park; he was slope-shouldered and solid, just like Giotto painted him.  Wearing a blue suit instead of brown robe, he stands just off the path with one hand outstretched.  A squirrel beseeches at his feet, hands and face upturned.  St. Francis pulls seeds from an orange plastic Sainsbury bag, holds out his palm and waits...A tiny bird falls like a leaf to his hand to feed and flits back up into the camouflage of foliage.  Another comes, and another, always taking turns. He leans down to the patient squirrel, answering its prayers. Young men with soccer balls, mothers with carriages, oblivious young with eyes only for their phones, and giggling teens--they all pass by him.  A child stops and turns to watch; only she can see him.  Her mother tugs her hand without glancing back and off they go.  It’s a warm Friday evening in Hyde Park.  Springsteen's lyrics ring in my ears:  it’s so hard to be a saint in the city.  But St Francis seems fine.