In a black cab on our way to the ballet –
‘The Red Shoes’ at Sadler’s Wells – we passed
the munificence of St Pancras Station
that dominates the six lane highway
and then the removed magnificence
of King’s Cross set far back from the road,
and I was reminded of some of Moscow’s
imitative terminals, and I thought
how a railway terminus is like
a proscenium arch and the track
inevitable like a plot unfolding.
Terminus was the god of boundaries,
the guarantor of happy ends, as it were.
And Moscow’s land locked dénouements came to mind:
Berlin, Warsaw, Kiev, Ekaterinburg.
For islanders the world supra mare
is almost abstract, fictive, the notion
that the end of land might be days away
impossible to contemplate – like
the stage gone dark, the dancing stopped.