Fleet

During the night, busses pass the window
with a glare of empty fish tanks,
clinical argon, raging brake lights.
Later they come lightless, creeping,
elephantine hearses taking no passenger
no where, their routes through shadow
clambering the child of Kentish hills.
London's heights, cobwebbed in telegraph,
dusty trees and rooves, bear them through
the watchful, humid passages of night
as the catacomb opening to intern
its millenial returning princes.
The city holds them all as brothers
in the moving world of its embrace,
every spiracle of light a signal,
each lonely soul a passenger.
The busses begin to dream, rocked
into a brakeless, whorling doze.
The roads grind beneath their wheels,
as moths come threading from the dark
and settle on their moving rooves.