Oxford Bridges

The sky is an ocean tonight,
a spotted line of white, like
washed up waves which fizz
in foamy baths of salt and air,
breaking across the sunset as
a single jet leaps from sea to sky:
shy, small fish come to sacrifice
itself on the never-ending
altar of burnished air before her,
standing on a railway bridge,
buffeted by late winterwinds,
turning its tail to speckled gold
as the fishjet tries to fly from
the red and black to come.

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