Poems on the Undergound

I was travelling though London today and saw this poem on the train.

Still Life with Sea Pinks and High Tide by Maura Dooley 

Thrift grows tenacious at the tide’s reach.
What is that reach when the water
is rising, rising?

Our melting, shifting, liquid world won’t wait
for manifesto or mandate, each
warning a reckoning.

Ice in our gin or vodka chirrups and squeaks
dissolving in the hot, still air
of talking, talking.