Member Poem

Not the flash of light on skin
but the red glow of cigarettes from crowds
gathered in doorways, flicking ash
and cigarette butts in little meteor showers
onto this footpath, into the canal,
as I walk along, towards the all-night shops,
just killing time, there's bursts of music, light
from pubs and curtained windows, rising up
into the frigid November air and then
a pair of swans, nestling beneath
the trailing branches of some shadowy tree,
white feathers luminous. I stop
and cross the canal, unsteady on the dangerous
lock gate bridge we sat and kissed on once.