London’s on her way
Back into my eyes and ears
Like fog sinking down from the celestial plane
And wrapping round the weathervane.
Words come slower than they did,
Catching up their coats and dashing from the unemployment
line
To see what the new development is and, hopefully,
To get a graveyard shift.
The sound of rain on the darkened asphalt of Palace Court,
Of tin foil clenched in a child’s fist,
Comes rampaging out of an unswept corner of the year
previous,
And drenches me in fear,
The kind that fills up your answering machine with
unrelenting calls.
The broken heater, the glass-top table,
And the loquacious sound of letters being opened,
Followed by sinking news of home,
These things bury me.
