Battersea Power station

Your four pillared remnant of past energy, stands shell-shocked,
cold, forsaken. I used to live near Battersea, walked the peace pagoda
in the park whose motionless buddha gazed over my shoulder. Minds
merge, lotus unfolds, run on the river, drift on an eternal course,
beckoned by the sea, drawn by the memory of salt . Sleepwalking back to
the day of dawn. Halflight our comfort in the shadow of awe. The power
station still stands a station of power, and gasps to hold forever, in
this, the nowhere hour.

So ends the shade, so turns the sky, so falls the wishes across the
Thames, so calls his kisses - the town condemns. Is there any other
time? What was that place called dark? Who captured this, the park, the
walkways, the leaves? Extended, brief, timeless moment , where are all
the people or the sun? Oh God whom I welcome, the nightmare is over,
and this is the morning.