The dead crane at Battersea

hangs rusty chains
in the January wind, strapped,
a loose Ulysses

at the edge of the Thames,
hearing no song,
massive and bowed.

Tomorrow’s dawn
will lap light
over its metal.

Forgotten skeleton
with soundtrack of trains
and river.

Bleak by the tide.

I sail past, another blank window,
cupped hands on glass,
silent, staring.