Crossing Waterloo Bridge,
early winter morning. A
bitter wind climbs the rungs
of the river into London.
Buildings on the far bank
lit sepia, marks of rain still
smudge their flanks.
A cormorant holds arched
wings out for the wind to dry,
statue-still above the flow
of water.
Clouds still cloak the sky, but
I can see between them the
ghost of last night’s moon,
slim crescent, like a smile
gone awry.
Poem from ‘How Do the Parakeets Stay Green?’
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