Steel dog sidings, limpet true, alone
The gutters weep second-hand oil as the sun goes quiet
(All noises accommodated beforehand),
This must be Coventry; or anywhere north of Milton Keynes
To a radius of 100 miles – the fetters are off;
The beast emerges now, its head heavy,
Sworn by calumny and rust-radiating features
Of industry’s shit-end, the residue, the unused and the un-useful,
The dry whisper of the firm’s ghost
- what power you had once, laddie, what power once had before –
The shadow is cast well, in the bauxite and clinker
As well cast as the stern body, the knotted rivet ribcage,
The sweet blood of hydraulic presumption

Awaiting orders from the master, one day

One day after laughter, whisky, divorce, boredom
The anticipation is the dog’s fuel, the pining energy in
Sockets and fissures; the greased groove, cog and
(Maybe this is its tin-can name) sprocket; as in:
Fetch Sprocket, Cum-ere Sprocket, Stay Sprocket.
Trains come in to the platform, kids whistle for biscuits or glue
Depending on their appetite; none are willing to give over
A moment for the steel pet, to the risk out by the slag.

- - - - - -

Poppy nearby is sweet red singular
A miracle cornered by patio slabs
Proud over and over, it has the name
Of a remarkable woman upon it
A great grandmother, a grandmother,
A mother, and a wife

- - - - - -

The TB sanatorium, Isle of Wight 1938; small bathing huts and beach chalets given over to the patients, a kind of wilderness ward, with a couple of inches of rain water on the floor and rats running around at night beneath the bed – many died there, women and children among them – she saw many go, watching their spirits fade gazing out to sea, where the air was meant to put them right