At 3 am the bridge becomes itself,
empty and quiet as last night’s snow.
Imprints of shoe soles and tyre tread cling
to their brief history a few hours more.
Softening winter branches small marvels
take the shape of common blackbirds.
A woman sweeps the hotel’s front step,
self-talk warding off the night’s thinning veil.
And what breaks through the river’s icy surface?
– let’s say fish for the sake of dreamless sleep …
A lone taxi trawls the streets hopeful as the red heart
flagging the pole outside the night club.
Restless hours these, in which the world’s deepest
thinkers crave the simplest of acts to return them.