I am walking the canal
in the dim light of a December evening,
settling my mind to its flow.
Ghostly on winter glass, swans,
bright as lit matches, are gliding
over the oarweed of traffic lights,
towards Harold’s Cross Bridge.
Oblivious to rush-hour commotion,
and blind to their own beauty,
they pass silently along,
out-pacing me and leaving nothing,
but a set of low chevron-shaped ripples
in their wake; while above them
two lines of cars fulminate continuously
to the iodine-murky sky.
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