I see your form
In cups of tea
In clouds and fog
You stroke the land
With white-gloved hands
I see your form
In morning mist
In Yorkshire’s pits —
A bed of holes that lies
In wait to swallow trains
You’re hard to see
This summer morn
And hard to grasp
As people board
The streamlined bird
With heated lungs
Your tender cloud
First breath then steel
Could be a soul
If not a horse