Suddenly flurries of snow
muffle the copper coloured gas works,

and write a language on the river
of dabs and whispers,

each flake adding to a glossary
of flow. Roars tumble down the weir,

the soundtrack of a city
stalked by cranes and diggers,

where our map-lines no more hold
than the shadows of clouds.

When I cut across the bridge,
I taste a hundred years of brick dust;

above me, windows of blank new-builds
ripple with white noise.

Down Up
Leave The River