Is a metaphor.
They bombed it slowly and
with love, leaving at least one church and
the train station’s stuffed dog.
6.31 am, someone I can’t see
on the fourth floor of the ‘Porter Building’
walks along a corridor, remotely bringing light
to each line of desk-partitions.
I remember the building that used to be there
a postmodern-looking Mobile-phone HQ
and how it had been abandoned for years
and then for 6 months the spire of the church
had been visible. This person walks
the floor of a different time
as if there is no floor.
17.45 pm, I count 4 different languages in phone
talk around me, and one in all languages: da-dee
in his father’s arms intoning
da-dee, exploring tonic shifts to make the word
work, that magic that pulls in a train with
cobra swing of head, my shoes
vending-machine-illuminated on
the concourse, wine-dark the train, losing
momentum, gathering purpose.
.
Giles Goodland
.