The dust of morning
swirls in the toepath
the dark’s fleeting detritus
leads a gentle way
to the warm grey of the city

A quarrel of branches
go their separate ways
pitched against the girders
while witch white bark flakes away
on the breaking breeze

Landing on the face of the earth
in its sodden card tomb
in its sodden down coat
jeans and jumper
and children’s pyjamas

A trickle of muts meander beside
the beatless artery
through the tepid beauty
past the stillness of an ending
beginning again

The bleaching siren
enchroaches on the simper of Sunday
and the blue-faced bobbies
bludgeon the boxes
red.