Kings Lynn

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.