The Last of England

Three o’clock in the morning
in this hotel whose name
I cannot remember.

Am I screaming now
am I making any sound at all?

Concentrate Andrew.

Imagine tomorrow.

Imagine
dozens of knives and forks
in kitchen drawers
lined with soft green baize.

Imagine the shoe-shine boy
already skimming his tin of polish.

And rows of new-laid eggs
waiting at room temperature.

But still the ship will not sail
the glittery liner whose name
will come to me in a moment.

Still it is
moored to the solid earth.

Bound to the stifling earth
while vast wheels of stars
continue to spin overhead
and dawn
refuses to meet the horizon.