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When the doors are locked at night
The children of the workhouse come.
I hear their footsteps,
Their small hands on escalator rails,
Their laugh sudden under the glass-dark sky.
They chatter as they touch the clothes, the shoes.
Their eyes are bright with thinking.
They remember Minster Street; the name Kendrick
Is stitched on their hems, their faces lit by stars.
They are here to foretell how it will be
- speak of space travel, autumn mornings,
the tenacity of love -
Stay with me until the soft hours
Until the waiters, baristas, shoppers
Wake to walk the river's edge,
Messages on their phones.