Crossing Waterloo bridge around midnight
with another poet after a reading,
I notice how the thick fog smothers light,

the tops of distant towers vanishing.
Even the flashing blinkers can’t be seen,
the city swallowed by a great nothing,

some rogue black hole on holiday from CERN.
The illusion provokes a sense of calm,
though not because of Cox’s dulcet tones

about how small we are before the chasm
of empty space and how our young species
is but a mote on the slide rule of time.

Nor is it from Ray Davies’ paradise,
the sunset that must be eight hours gone,
and this is Sabbath’s doom laden reply.

It’s more that, as the primal dark returns,
the Big Bang’s fury playing in reverse,
we paupers on the ground still get our fun

watching the penthouse dwellers cop it first.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 27, 2012 @ 14:24:07

    Like them or loathe them, those towers of Mammon at Canary Wharf offer endless opportunity for poets.


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