Her ambition is killing

as

Miss Wembley seats out on the six thirty,

  Reading of holidays, manicures, pedicures –

enters
  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.