From where I stand I see
Half a building made from bomb raids
Carved out against the bloodshot sky
And frozen car parks stilled
Ice dives and lines and geographs each fallen leaf on cement
And boarded up windows shy away
Sootened and damp and rotten.
I see \"Private! No Parking!\"
24 openings in brick reveal 24 windows that gleam like sneers
And I can tell the backs of old houses are unveiled
Peeled back from their recent facades
And my eyes are drawn to the 500-year-old-buildings
And I see her sitting on the steps of history with her cigarette in hand
As she careless presses embers onto cold stone
And the narrowing of the alleyway
From which the parfum of chips and curry sauce lingers
And before I know
I am at the river and it spreads cold and ethereal and vast
Grooves in the silt worn and cut by ice
And I feel the tide wash in like a breath
And it seems as though the quayside fades into the distance
As though just a dream
From where I stand.