The bus driver
parks up
for a break
and a fag
with his hand in his pocket
and talks to the doorman
Park Plaza, Waterloo
turn right for West End

The wind blows
from the river
bits of grit
from all the building

The doorman paces to keep warm

~ ~ ~


The river dribbles
and jets over rocks and pebbles
bubbles and laps
smoothes away at logs
catches old sol and blinds

a nest of feathers and cobwebs
home to eight long-tails
wobbles in the wind

This ancient tree
does not deserve its roots
Rotted, pulped into insect food
it holds on now
nearly ready to fall
a new chunk of the cycle

~ ~ ~