They lumber north, the slow beasts
sombre grey, making us sullen,
their rumps block out the light –
as day falls away they are making for subfusc
(it is always subfusc in the north) before
stars come out: you’ll find us on station platforms
sitting in dismantled libraries, swirling pale cups
in half-empty tearooms, shutting a skylight

look up, it’s later than you think, they warn
in the language of the last blackbird

as it falls silent