Her ambition is killing
Miss Wembley seats out on the six thirty,
Reading of holidays, manicures, pedicures –
perfectly in ironed veil
doing admin in excelsis to the metal rhythms,
and computerised voices directing thoughts and noises
firmly between train and platform.
So making her way by season ticket
up through Maida Vale and the wealthier mezzanines.
Who is she?
Secret, searched for somewhere
On the North Circular,
is she the lark she sometimes says she is?
Just for a moment
while still visible in this setting out and setting in
her wings still visible,
in the rapid, early commuting.
Others noticed but did not say
As they went up and down
And along their way
In their more ordinary migration.
So how about tonight?
Conditions seem somehow right.
You remember the filing cabinet,
Fax machine and stranger blackberry?
Now we have something more agreeable.
To sit alone amid hotels
Indulging ourselves in all those smells;
And when it takes our fancy
Call ourselves Sid and Nancy.
Worry, worry, worry,
Time’s such an absolute bother
Except when rendezvousing
By the nearest railway
Without a need for endless email.
And think of all the gifts –
Silks, bracelets, shifts.
Clothes wrapped in seeming eternity
With shoes of the finest diamante.
Scent of roses and clementine
And diamonds from Tiffany.
‘Come on down then’
Join me on this bed of flowers
To pass each minute and every hour.