Albion Drive

the winter was, with blades
of ice
over Hackney Road,
there,
several times, a Chinese opera perfection
you might have lost, later, in the ground of the general —
the blossoming of things
from their stems out — [mistaking
    for the old winter
    the new growth frozen, by a glance too brief
    to catch the shift] had we not seen
these lantern pearls; these sky-blue filigrees
of steel:
walking Sunday from Spitalfields,
, white
wings, all this laddering
of layers: no copper joint holds heaven
here to all that falls, this imprecise
colourfield
of broken walls; near Albion Drive, this purple
skyburst of climbing herbs.

(Something like the song)

Cabbage roses
or the moon.
Pollen in the air.

This also the way home;
& though the boughs are low
  and you must crawl,
                 you
    feel the dust. Of itself,    you are
       dust. Of iron, stars.   wherever

where the dust is from:
a fault in the nothing
weighs down the light

love, tell me again, what it is
    we know & do not know.

these leaves, since
late September
heaped, are thrown —
love given, against the
chill of this season:
what this place, made bonfire-lit for this occasion
  serves between
[ is suddenly shown.