Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
A berry, flirting from the crowded holly,
Or dropped at its dark foot, slightly crumpled,
But certain that the folded good inside it,
Though not the word for spring, is still a word
As bitter, bright and crystal-complex…Lammas,
The earthed berry promises: good morrow.
From Win Hill to Hope Cross
branched crystals of hoar frost
light on the heather
So much time has passed. Snow-
flakes fall round lit street lamps.
They’re falling in Glasgow
They’re falling in Norway
Would it be good for me
not to say “so much time”?
Would it be better if
I could say “I’m alive
and I remember snow-
flakes falling round street lamps
when I was very young
Here, the sea is milk. A fishy milk, a cold
bouillabaisse of chalk and fin, served on a clatter
of stone. Within its clouded vision, cod fatten,
mackerel cut their zig-zags through the fog
like children dawdling to a school that has disappeared
and may not, they pray, be there when the whiteness clears.
These cliffs are temporary. Reduced and solid,
born from the warm, tropical broth of stock
and stored in a stack above, an Oxo block
now broken off in chunks and re-dissolved
in the cooler, less forgiving froth
of this liquid finger from the north.
So life revolves. We, too, are soup.
Temporarily solid vats of DNA
fleshed out just long enough to find a mate
with whom to create a different brew.
We dawdle through the fog. Circling above:
vagrants and migrants, the murderous cries of gulls.