Behind the railway cutting
curtained windows are still drawn tight.
Aerial masts on newly-tiled roofs
point east: a train from Manchester
scowls west further into
the lock of houses, over the bridge
to the scraps of hedges where the foxes
live border-crossing the line
at dusk to the Mystery and the school car park;
and always down towards the sea
that is pulling all movement out with its
back arched, the landscape on ropes,
the city afloat, dragging all to the horizon:
water at our knees, gulls on the bow.