Your makers sculpted you to rise as high
as King's Cross Station's arch. Your circles spun
in air, latticed frames, like eyes above
the Camley Park, Old St Pancras Church,
Culross, Stanley Buildings where Fred Astaire
and Ginger Rogers danced on the wall, barges
afloat on the Regent's Canal, pipes that snaked
your gas away, railway lines, barbed wire
caging you, running wild along brick walls.
I often wandered past to see your wheels
of steel intricately wrought like lace stained pink,
held by annulets, lovers' rings with black
square stones. At evening I watched the sun splash
your pink with red, and conjure your hoops to join,
circling chains twining and intertwining
like dancers in the air. White vapours skimmed
behind your capitals, then disappeared
to leave deep blue sharpening your silhouette.
This was the place for studying skies, where clouds
grew black and pushed your rings so close to earth
you frowned, though, often when the sun broke through
a rainbow ran between your arcs, and made
the raindrops flicker on your metalwork.
But now dismantled, stored away, only one
of you is left, bereft, like Boadicea
who might have met her fate at Battle Bridge,
this ancient place where roads and rivers met.