Last shift, winding up.
Half a million years a metre,
faster than light they come
out of the sparkling dust
of ancient ferns, of seeds, of crinoids
pressed thin as frostleaves in the seam;
out of an ancient England,
a polar world of icecaps rising,
falling; a tropic land under a moon
come close and huge;
an England slipping north
on the shift of continents,
up through compacted tailing
of the silt and grit of worn-down ranges,
winding up into light,
into the sky of England, now.

Time travellers, they come blinking 
at exploding flowers of flashbulb fire;
minstrel-eyed, with red wet mouths,
black faces estuaried with sweat.
They walk heavily like warriors.
Slab-muscled, in filthy orange vests,
steel booted, in buckled metal greaves,
webbing belts, and battery packs
and helmets, here they come.
They could have fought 
at Towton, Adwalton Moor, Orgreave.

They check out their brass tokens
For the last time; officially they are alive.
They will check in their gear,
sit in the hot rain of the shower,
and if they weep, no-one will see.
They will not say much.
They have been wound up out of history
into this moment. Into England now.
Of the future they can say nothing at all.