This end of town is quiet
on a weekday. You can think
of nothing; filtered cloud-light
whitening the air you take

between each step you plan
an escape you won’t attempt
today: it’s getting late,
the sudden sun is low-slung, cold.

Lined against the harbour wall
the boats are all tied up:
your shadow, loosened
floats behind you

as you turn against the winter,
stoop your head
and head for home.