Following daily such a dread-
ful trade to earn a living,
With every second on that cliff
So cruel and unforgiving,
Is fine - as long as no one comes
And asks us what we do there...
We'd have to say, Without our toil,
Just who would know it grew there?
The Cat Without E-Mail (2001).
At dawn, a railwaywoman
On a country platform whirls on the end of a chain
An irrelevant key, while a young guard makes to wipe
A crumb from her lapel; and see, she smiles
A permissory smile you take in from your corner seat:
A cameo of unrehearsed perfection.