poetry diary

Through twisted camera lens
impassive skies frame
jagged diamonds and
splintered, crooked spires.

Naked, shallow waters thirst
for birds or resting ships –
adventure, risk and stevedores.
Sun glanced from tiny waves
to empty mooring rings –
shining black, unused
except to trap by accident
an empty, sodden,
sparkling pack of crisps.

Logos in the water speak
of trade and another age:
Hong Kong, Shanghai, and India;
reflections of a past now blurred
as each cloud blocks the sun;
evaporating with the years
and lack of ships, and men, and fears.

*****
Canary Wharf is a redeveloped dockland at the heart of London’s financial district. I was there last Monday. I’m not a great fan of the UK’s over-reliance on financial services.