Born in London but raised away, above-ground
in Dublin, the first time I entered you,
sinking through standing levels, brushed by that warm
intimate-exotic wind – smells of caked soot,
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historical dust and the third rail’s greased
lightning – I was home, buried, breathed on,
cradled and mortally coiled, lost and found.
Today’s poem is from Mark Granier’s recent collection ‘Ghostlight: New and Selected Poems’ (Salmon )
