Doors drag themselves, and we thrust through
reeling from signs that flicker and switch
with shutter-speed trips, cutting this way and back.
We take pains avoiding inky gazes –
the strange and the fattened, locked into their wrists,
caught up in the stars, the columns of tales –
families, lost wives, the barking, the sad
the girls who have murder cut into their hands.
The morning’s still flashing, in typical ways –
attempting to prove that changes can come
from this tepid wash of English skies, these
towns pulled from marshlands, the days have drained
such wonders. They built with all intentions –
riveted, nailed, knocked up by top hats,
industrious line upon line, now held
in ghost-faced postcards, praised at stations.
The coast breaks my sight, and somebody tuts
at the sun slashing through the uniform blinds.
A shot of blue, a stretch of sand is caught before
the cities sprint towards us.