Thursday, December 01, 2005


The tincture of distilled elk-musk
rises from the Universitate labs late evening
and drifts towards the jagged tripytch formation of stratus:
silverback, eglantine, streaked with coal-dust.

And the slope of a bridge arcing high into rivermist
whose far end disappears into the rainbow
of its fluvial histories;
here the escutcheon of the East India Company,

there the spice warehouse that paid
for the Stalinist palace of arts –
and silence too, lying on the waters,
snared in the ripples of a distant fog horn.

published in 'The Like of It' Baring & Rogerson 2005

1 comment:

Helen Calcutt said...

I like this poem very much - every word is almost a surprise. Very fresh :)