From the top deck

White city centre cabs swoop,
like gawping black-eyed Gulls;

kerb swerve a northern Brine Fly
swarm, pick off a few, calorie rich.

How they ripple, eddy; wavelets
reveal hail-crust engilded paving

slab's readysteady mirrorshine
of vacant lighthouse beacons.

Loft-living reflected, sharp
as napped flint for the down

to earth, scuffling, short sleeved,
bare legged; back to back-to-back,

skint. The bus station stage yawns
its hepatic yellow-eyed welcome.

-----------------
minor edit 29.09.10