Rochester Bridge in February

On a freezing cold morning on Rochester Bridge, as one looks across to Frindsbury breathing air that’s crunchy with frost and squinting from the weak sun which illuminates the river’s surface leaving nothing left for the sky to hang on to, deltoids might wonder (as they try in vain to spot an horizon) whether the river or the sky held their dreams.  Night time’s perspective will reveal.

All daylight
rests on glass chicane
now holding close the listing sub
and rusted dreams
of gentle men.
Last-legs sky
mouths words at us;
we see its breath and
feel its pull
as iron spider looks away again.

Today is barely day at all
and, as we crunch
through white-glazed streets,
we know
tonight’s a night returned
to glass chicane,
now glossed afresh – elusive place
where rusted men
might store
the chilly things they learned.