The Moon Under Water
In the end we don’t stop at the Moon
Under Water café on Deansgate
although we’re hungry and beguiled
by its two meals, eight ninety-nine. But all the way
back to the car I’m struck by the name
and as we reach Little Ancoats
that water’s taken shape, fog bound and chill
as in a Valette painting, secret as the rivers
that still seam the city underground –
the Tib that only comes back after rain,
the Irk that runs thirty feet below Victoria Station.
And if its future gleams now, steel and glass,
the city’s past still breathes at Mendel, Watt’s
and Castlefield, vast warehouses I thought I’d make
my poem from, but here I am, a girl clutching her hat
racing to school past Fountain Street, Spring Gardens
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