Requiem at Holborn.
For the woman.

Marked, blue, four walls like a home,
as empty as a house; solemn as a bike lane,
teams, streams of folks, late, nonethewiser,
coppers in white, like sad brides, by blood.

I cannot forget the morn, for the strike,
top deck I was, Holborn-high, and passing
death, cordoned, as still as discarded steel,
masses marched on; no swansong, no tears.