Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

To walk into the flat where it all started, 

And see the fridge the square it had no depth, 

It would have crumbled under water jets. 

To walk out of the bridgehead into dawn. 

Outside this incandescence neither green  

Nor yellow in the gardens, June, the birds.  

The traffic on the Westway was still sparse 

And stately as the drivers rubbernecked. 

To say the caller’s name and hold the line, 

To keep the caller there until the end. 

To walk into the almost-longest day, 

The tinnitus of silence after sound. 

Outside this incandescence in the gardens, 

The sprinklers turning in the garden squares.