The reflected sun is a
fat gold wristwatch, laid out
on the frozen mudflats.
Time is still.
Caws of Hitchcock crows fill the silence.
My boots crunch on salt, crystallised and laid out
on the pavement floor.
A half-moon of banana skin gapes,
a leering smile,
all concrete-stuck and cold.
A frosting-topped train slinks by,
twelve carriages of steamed windows and
sleeping commuters, laid out
like tin soldiers with their legs stretched out.
Grass is stiff and stuck, bunches of
iced green jutting up at the sky
and nestled with lacy leaves.
My face is stung.
My knuckles creak.
The sort of morning that makes
an old man's eyes water at the corners,
the sort of morning that reflects you back on yourself.