By Tim Fletcher
This throng of puffed birds perch in the crook of a bridge,
Heads hooked to chest to miss the cleaving wind.
A freighter trundles over and rumbles open one eclipse eye
Which flicks to study walls mirrored with night’s dark water.
He searches for his likeness in the concrete and the lichen
And, finding it distorted, watches water on its way
Past bubble-lettered multi-coloured monikers.
Perpendicular on pavement, through pigeon shit and fag ends,
The city’s slurry slips over the fish-skin slickness
Of wet kerbstones, into the open mouths of drains,
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