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