3959 miles down

One woman,
caught in the split-second crash
as the last raindrop but one silently
transforms on a glass roof miles
from the boiling centre of the earth.

The air, faintly smiling,
smells of cherries and iron.

For me, the past gleams
slantwise, spins on the bevelled lens
of foxed glass. A catch on the edge
of the glitter-plane.

It’s like a snatch of echoed song
when water turns to mirror-glass
and the world’s pace is caught
by a passing photographer.
Time-stealer, moment keeper.

A stilled reminder that underneath
our mundane feet lies water, stone
and metal ore. Time-travel;
the wonders of Byzantium
spilled from a gilded street puddle.