Those white-tipped marquees
which cap the new glass building
are women wedded in summer, veiled
like sun on long-ago sails
or the ghost-ships we watched that morning
sea and sky melded, dulled
to powder by mist on the still reach.
How we waited.
And I like to think of the river beyond
the wall, or the ghost-river
beneath us, how it carries the mountain
through the capital’s foundations.
So imagine these yellow cameras
hoist on frozen gantries above the cobbles
are only heads in a café after work:
not really looking;
and the cars lined up in metallic shades
are, after all, just waiting
as we did
while the shadowed mullions of the station
pray for the departed.
– (published in Orbis Winter 2008/9)