Up here, semi-silence; twin flows
filling dry-bedded Avon becoming Swan,
rain-filled or lack-of-rain-empty
river/s; yet, purifying and memory-enhancing
flows of the mount aren’t visible
to most who climb over its pre-lapsarian face;
weeping fills the brightest channel,
or runnels of shadow running down valley
into the Avon, cascading in deluge,
but always flowing chemical residues,
growth and profit, filling the city’s boating waters
with that hell-food, algae; up there, UHF
repeater station picks up prayers on channel 7,
and York FM’s Mustang Sally warbles and calls
101.3 on the transmit-a, ‘Swinging on the Gate’,
thirteen-year-old Amy intoning mature bloke’s
wish-fulfilment strains—watch out, York—big hit;
believing in magic is believing in you,
watch out, York…organic food…release me,
let me go…please, please please me; drenching
down from hill that weeps, hill of tears,
cathedral, mosque, synagogue, temple…
yet Ballardong claim is ignored: Matilda
sings instead from the garden before Fall:
release me, let me go…please,
please…please me.