Undiscovered continents loom up
ahead of us. Tall sodium-haired figures gild
the gloom. The traffic creeps with caution
as it navigates the broad boulevards
of Tooting Bec. And we, pedestrian,
seek crossings, gaps -- end up
in culs-de-sac, so double back
meeting our shadows as we stumble
between municipal rowans drained
of all their colour. I cannot see
your hand before my face, Priscilla.
Sing to me as a siren might; guide
me, my darling, into realms of light.