The end of something

Tomorrow you ride the iron horse
through the city of the four winds;
Goodge Street, Russel Square, Bank, Camden.
Clackater-clack it muses to nobody.
From London to the shallow sea.

I hate you for coming so late,
and leaving so early.
Why fourteen hours you selfish fool?
The banks are breaking today,
Why not all the time in the world?

Tyger tyger burned so bright,
Back into your hands, close the loop.
You smile with your brother, cake ablaze.
Let's see what develops.
A gas mask, Soviet uniform. Silver nitrate.

You've gone again. Wagon wheels roll on.
Creme anglaise fraise
In the bottom of a paper cup.
The tea leaves of our generation.
The one's who have forgotten.

Again the iron horse. Again the knotted throat.
Drunkslow slipping sounds of low sand,
engines strain; rich cross channel deisel
You've gone. Nothing. Ever.


Why not all the time in the world?