Light spreads darkly downwards from the high br Clusters of lights over empty chairs br That face each other, coloured differently. br Through open doors, the dining-room declares br A larger loneliness of knives and glass br And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads br An unsold evening paper. Hours pass, br And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds, br Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room. br br In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How br Isolated, like a fort, it is - br The headed paper, made for writing home br (If home existed) letters of exile: Now br Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.