London to Montreal

1

There were Brussel Sprouts in the Kensington street this morning.
Having discussed my other name – Bruxelles - before leaving.
An echo of sprouts spied by the Solent at Christmas.
We’re haunted by the symbols of our names. Sprouts and
Arrows. Saints and jackdaws. The name Kafka’s derived,
They say, from the Czech for jackdaw, and now there are
Jackdaws roosting in the Winchester chimney.
My sister, due to fly East to Khartoum, and I
Blocked up the chimney breast with old sheets, shelves, firewood,
Bird tomes, an encyclopaedia, an atlas.
The jackdaws are Franz’s revenge for my birds-eye view.
A perspective he, forever flightless, never knew.

2

Looking at my airline map, London and Montreal appear
Poised on a similar longitude. Through the cabin window
Can be seen a vast snow-speckled plain, as uninhabited
As any place can be. The snow reads like a pre-historic
Book. The lie of the land, described before and after words.

3

According to that map, as the plane flies into the mouth
Of the Saint Laurent, (another of my handles), it skirts
A neglected spot named Sydney, breasting the Atlantic.