Come to me, here, from Furness Vale
To this idle county, where
a dozen stations stand in
wait to loan the City her suits
and collect them, weary, at the day’s end.
Descend the chasm that splits
England’s pleasant pastures
and concrete miles; a balancing
or cancelling act that renders neutral –
but each Spring I watch from my window
the azaleas that blossom in my
neighbours’ garden, the petals peeling,
revealing, coming undone by the swelling heat.
Be here, Scarlett, let me watch
our shadows spread across my wall
as the shifting sky paints the room,
like burning embers.
And, sun sinking, let us go to bed.
