Sunset in London

It is sunset in London.

About 8.30 in the soft evening, with a train rattling past

And the clouds like heavy marble,

And the wood doves who rose, back on the cables.

Nothing will change, ever.

There is, alas, no point

In that thing as a goal for the world.

The wood-doves will just flap back on the cable.

The only thing, it deems itself known

to me, and maybe you

is that we love, that we care.

I am burned of heat, burned of hope.

All I have left are the ashes of the next time,

the green shoots of something that might be.

They can burn us all they want,

They can, and will.

Another train rattles past, and

again I see the wood-doves float back to their position.

I am the stranger here. Not

The train. Not the fat pigeons.

The sky doesn't care how she looks,

Nor the sun how he feels.

It might be time to leave.

I have served my time.