London Child

February 11, 2012 § Leave a comment

A poem I wrote nine years ago and revised last weekend…

London Child

Sundays

she lies all day

in the bath

 

bottletop kneecaps

higher than her head

 

watching the tidal flow

of shadows over plaster.

 

If I turned my head it would brush the ceiling

 

Under the stairs

a forest of watch chains

tolls and tolls.

 

If I put my hand out the window it would

skim the garden wall

 

A windowpane shivers:

 

if she lets the water slip over her ears

in her porcelain echo chamber

 

she hears

 

under the distant clangour

of a train

streaming towards Blackhorse Road

 

the muted groan of crystal vaults

scraping past each other.

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