nightbird

 

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.

nightb1

Advertisements