Woolwich

The river, like stroked fur,

is silver in the places

where the wind has touched it.

Tate & Lyle;

Canary Wharf;

the Barrier – all are diminished

by the river’s breadth.

The world is larger

than you think. The sky

is its own echo, endlessly

reiterating nothing and imposing nothing.

Here, hunched up against the wall,

a rustbucket, the Royal Iris,

tilted in the foreground. Rust a curse:

Time’s judgement, or Time’s echo,

mirroring and parodying

towers that look like brushstrokes,

asserting nothing.

First published in The Aleph Review. From My Father is Calling the Neighbours Names, published by Vine Leaves Press.