The nation’s loneliest building
is anchored deep,
steel legs wrapped in wire,
and this looped on trusses.
Here, the wind has no quarter;
it roams and howls, tugging
at the grey iron, bowing the walls.
There is one inhabitant – a
Land-Rover parked on dust.
It is canvas and steel and wear
plopped on thin gnarled tyres;
it is something you must touch;
you feel the frost and the wind
and the river dust; it is in the
handles and under the rim.
There are foot marks – a lost
traveller or an intruder come west,
where the river is glacial grey,
wanders and surges and, everywhere
the light hints that summer has left,
that here, autumn’s breath is near