After William Wordsworth
Some way across the bridge I stop to watch
a pigeon on the parapet: the hideous,
urban beauty of the bird, its thrust-hold strut,
the wings flexed, garment-like, about it,
wearing the defiant grit and glitter of the city.
It lifts off into the smokeless air: the buses, Gherkin,
Shard, the Tate, tenement blocks, the domes,
and on the bank a Liebherr crane hand on hip
conducts the barges gliding on the river, calm,
like a Calder mobile I once saw, the gallery wall steeped
in its shadows. I get a glimpse through the sharp,
discordant light of a metallic heart: the stacking up
of time, dear passer-by, is impervious
to the pulse of a single life, hushed in vertigo.
