(following the discovery of iron age remains at the site of the 2012 Olympic Park, Stratford)
Each day a fresh terrain: dirt-yellow ants
bite through soils, their tracked mandibles
levelling hills, shaping plains to make
a new thing - a venue; a stage; a belief.
One lifts a sod, lets sunshine pitch
through a skull's orbit - the world
had spun our star three thousand times
since this bone's last East End breath.
Mighty legends shall erupt from the land,
the hoardings say, once waste is cleared -
derelicts razed, bricks recycled, hopes renewed.
Great dreams must lance from fresh skulls.