Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
Poems on the Underground, series 25. 1993.
Tonight the Salome moon
throws off her seven cloud veils -
small, full and high in the east,
she lights her half of the sky
with soft blue and softer grey,
while in the west
Darkness touches his toes,
bows down to me or the moon.
Down on the shore,
an egret, motionless, abiding,
suddenly opens his wide wings,
white as the fleece
from which Gideon wrung a bowl of dew,
white as the robe slipping
from the shoulders of Bathsheba.
Four a.m. Night is greasing the streets.
The breath of all the sleeping people
hangs over town and I wait on red
at deserted crossroads for nobody.
The moon is tangled in a net of clouds.
I will go back to bed, and you
will sleep on the plane.
I will wake up to the familiar
– the heating coming on,
creaking and stretching
like you when prodded awake,
muttering and grumbling
like you at the petty autocracy of a clock.
I will hear life in its arteries,
the audible thump of its heart,
feel how the wood under my bare feet
has the warmth of skin.