Sandmartins, Kelham Island

As if machines at rest

they click

as if gorging on espresso

they dart

as if practising unwelcome faith

they hide

as if sizing up a property

they bet on stone

industry slumped, curled into curiosity

factory smells twisted into neighbourhoods

mills morphed into apartments or museums

the speculators eyed rates of return

hipsters scented coffee and craft beer

and in a draughty hall saints spoke in tongues

as if all this were not the action

they click

as if they know the clock is running down

they dart

as if conscious of a sixth extinction

they hide

as if connected to a slower rhythm

they bet on stone