The girl on the bus talks of being in care.
It's okay, I've my own room, she tells a friend
and they ask me nothing if I'm back by ten.
We rattle down the Worrall road and there
spread out in the crook of the valley
is the derelict UCAR factory
with its water tower, sheds shaped like Dutch gables,
its gravel tracks lost in a fan of trees,
and those cloud-dragging chimneys
foursquare like some giant upturned table.