The Northing

Preston Clock Tower








Majestic city with your single clock tower
and tolling bells draped in snow,
spires alight
with sombre purples
and bloody redness of a watchdog’s eyes

how a Boreal gust turns your wind dial north
as the northing clocks turn to midnight.

Snow-windows shiver.
Chinking glasses let light into the cold.

Merry cheers. Blown open doors.

Blood and wine in the veins
with a splendour of song.

Singing city, let them pour forth
on your cobbled streets and embrace.

Your crowd together again. You walk amongst them
in a cocktail dress. When the cameras flash
they do not show your industrial scars.

Congratulations! Another year done.
Your taxi awaits, dear city.

And for me the north wind, the liminal time
and places. I will not be long.


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