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 an hepatic-eyed welcome.