Packed with the sifted
plankton of the City
a creaking old carriage
sings to whales,
Squeaking
Low yet intense,
the winter sun
burnishes the birches;
but their far side,
in deep shadow,
is
She thinks it might
Be hand luggage.
Smiling, I say
It’s just a book,
But lose
The frosty sunset
Burns a livid hole
In the crushed
Silk sky.
We travel backwards
Past
The tower sinks
Into an evening
Gold country;
A sudden square
Cemetery, walled
From fertile
Turner painted
Today's dawn.
The closed faces
Burn with gold.
A cold December sun
Has sunk into the sea;
Only spectral lights remain,
Illuminating the pallid