Emerging

Dim shafts poke through.
A noise like hammering.
Three blasts of a horn.
A laugh and a cough.
Like a ride on a horse,
Slow motion trottings
Out on a field as before;
Before this concrete town
Rose from its swamp
And told of its future.
There's a certain type of
Steam.
Lean pickings in the air.
The vast nothing of blue,
The skyline closer than a
Hand reaching out.
To stand and see the harvest
Of home for a moment,
To see clearly as the
Dawn emerges and I roll
Into the warmth of a city's
Red eye of morning.