SEQUESTRATION
Sentry-like they stand, robust
as any Five-Year-Plan, a battery
of wind-turbines – vanguard of
our new Fomorians blindly over-
seeing the dull roll of drumlins,
each clutch of hills bunched up like
skinflints’ fists forever hoarding
the marl’s diminishing returns
soured by conifer, lakes turned
chill and acid, no sound but
soughing through Sitka spruce
under the slow rotation of arms.
Between the pen and execution
the shadow falls.
.
.
LIGHT RAIL
Pre-dawn. Bray Station’s
screech and shunt. Morning
is a wet nose and snuffle,
four paws flopping to the floor
for the first excursion. Outside
the street is a neon stage-set –
the first slow train unspooling
its show-reel across a bridge
in a series of stills, the sitters
sleep-stunned and solitary
as anything from Hopper,
to a sound-track of rattling iambs:
the track, the train; the track, the train;
the pulse of a city waking.