PoW

Northing from Africa, inching in truck-loads
up the hot whore’s leg of Italy
into the unimagined rising backs of mountains.

A London boy, sure footed in alleys and yards,
surveys the rearing mountains, coifed chalets,
firs with winter entangled in their branches,

boiling cauldrons of cloud around the peaks,
plans spring escape: a hike to Switzerland,
like crossing Piccadilly in a blindfold.

One thought clocks the miles, strange syllables
formed by teeth and lips, the unfamiliar shapes
of beit; casa; heimat. All senses

swung like compass to that bombed out
house in Hoxton, true magnetic north
hours turning and turning it closer.