babbling … you go down
into the lost city
there are secret squares
of olde worlde trees,
botanical gardens,
that exist in dreams only,
an alchemist’s shop,
a bustling market, where you
can buy truffles or star fruit;
and embedded in all the moons
above late-afternoon Mabgate –
a clock striking four-thirty…
it’s time for an extravaganza,
swing into a glittering ballroom,
full of mirrors and chandeliers,
the tall, dark waiters are waltzing
round a medley of tables,
and a drag queen in sugar-pink tulle
points you in the direction
of an escalator… you step onto
the ground floor at Allders,
customers in Fifties-style hats
head for bargain counters,
then out, through the double doors
an old man in Dortmund Square,
selling the Evening Po-aa-ss-t
falls off the cliff of his own voice …
you wake up startled, baulking
at your loss:
a city anchored, but sunk
Linda Marshall