This evening, we collaborated on another film-poem. We live near the end of the Northern Line, and our evenings are pleasantly haunted by the sound of the train.
What could I tell to the long twilight?
What would it ask of me?
The dusk is a keeper of secrets
placid as a frozen lake.
My muscles are rinsed with indigo,
my bones glow with a weak,
The darkness can’t fully arrive.
Nothing will come of nothing, warned
the king. So I will speak again:
the moon pours down her tenderness
the city glows back in praise.
The skyline stretches its fingers,
reaching to the tips of the glove.
Even the trees are clambering,
black lightning sprung up from the ground.