Beneath the surface of our time
The water works and spreads her song:
In patterned carpets, drifted, dripped,
In crumbled brickwork, lyrics worn.
She lives outside the centuries –
The business hours, the closing times.
The lives just pass her by like drips,
As moments in a steady fall.
The questions that she sings for us:
Renewal from the slow decay,
The dampness in the air which hangs,
Will last beyond the building’s walls.
The steady tap of rain on glass:
The song of lives, the song of pasts.