Canary Wharf


We worship at the new
cathedrals, mirror-glass
spires of ingenuity that
cut  black edges in the
sky. Clouds patterning
their surfaces continue
on and it can be hard to
tell whether it is the sky
or the edge that’s falling.
All the time down below
tiny trains weave in and
out on rollercoaster track
their reflections running
beside them.  Inventing
their importance, priests
in dark suits hurry from
the gasp of openings past
pilgrims who have come
only to gape and wonder.


In glittering basements, a honeycomb of passageways throbs
to the sting of stilettos.  Pulses of grey suited workers seek
out lunch, perch on high stools in spot lit cells, drink wine.
All they need is here. All they need to protect.

Ilse Pedler