Heatwave
A tin scream rises and then dies.
The automatic doors now open
and amidst the dazed, the tourists and survivors
we are swept along,
towards the churning steel of stairs:
upwards, higher still and rising.
The foul perfume of summer sweat,
deodorant and sun-block swamps us -
we are very small now suddenly:
two lost children caught in some steel mill dream.
Upwards, now above, a flash of light
divides the sea of flesh and summer clothes -
it breaks and scatters, cannot hold us anymore.
Outside, it’s like some nuclear event
rolled in some vast horizon,
turned it inside out and all is quiet suddenly.
The birds that chase a cloud of moths along the tree tops
scream like brilliant firework -
colours that proclaim all else is silent heat,
a blast of white.
We move like careful votive candles.
The bridge now beckons and our eyes and hungry skin
seek the sleeping white of swans below.
Before us in the midday shimmering, the church towers
in a haze of tired metallic blues and greys now tremble -
their reflection in the river more precise and clear.
You turn to me, I close my eyes and lean into your weight and grace -
till the heat dissolves and the church towers break in ripples,
as a lonely swan now rises from the river -
and you hold me ever closer to the heart of time.