Meadowhall

As the last tram carries
its dim light to the terminus,
and car parks are prairies
lost to litter and foxes,
the river finds its voice again,
clear over the north-bound traffic,
says:
         So much for Mammon
and all you take from it
those loose fittings you cling onto
in the flood of your lives
for I will shimmer through
this valley till it cracks and gives
see your houses topple
streets furrow under trees
before I quicken swell
and wash black ashes to the sea.