Before the Clocks Struck Three (Mr. Eliot Had an Apparition in Salford and It Was Very Foggy)   Salford is the rainiest place, getting   Inside my shoes, wetting   Tired feet in undarned socks.     Yesterday, before the clocks   Struck three, three old horses   Munched wet grass   Among the relics   Of Clifton’s Wet Earth Colliery:   Which on reflection,   Were beautiful objects   Of rust, time and toil.     Fog swirls, curls   Around the clock tower,   The quays, the trees —

If the Rain in Warsaw Sounds Like This      From a secret they shaped   A room in London—   A breath of space   Lit by a single candle’s hush.     Out there the war was cold,   Close to freezing.   But they were warm within.     Stillness gathered.   They listened to icy rain   Softly striking stone—   Each drop a touch,   A covert word   Only they understood.     It was a fragile pact:   Two selves from opposing worlds,   Folded into one,   Briefly, tenderly.     Then a man

Aquarius So, the routes of the city, all its paths, arteries and overflows – the scummy run-offs from sewers and roads – end or...

Endless, endless, the downward laminar flow of rain -- Atoms falling through the void