The hollows of five swallow the dusk,
all peach-skied and twinkle distanced.
A gloam sets in, where
brackened-trees stand Burton-style, picked out
against the sky.
Traffic hums unseen, a soundtrack pocked by
calling birds, a crow perhaps,
or another you don't know.
Across the water, chimneys sparkle,
bouncing lights of cars going home.
Blink and the dark is in, settled
for the night,
where walking home becomes
a look over your shoulder,
or a collar turned upwards against the cold.