The Temple of Mithras, raised gave a bus stop a name and a still penetrating echo. They keep on arriving.
Orange, ornamental fish dive at dawn, in the glass atrium gasping for rocky water.
They want another world. Craving a purer air, you circle for more oxygen in your gilded soaring cage, a milky sunlight firm on the elevator surface, the bronze engraved fascia.
Arbitrage manages every risk and the ghosts go burying more screams underground.
Like a moonlit undertow they cry silver and grey.
In your upper cubicle eaves, the walkway Zen structure every breaking morning,
cabled cacti, a wireless fear after the dim guiding stars.
=========================== First published acumen 44 September 2002. Revd. Ref. 'EC4' in lower note. Otherwise i.m Fiona Hobkirk
