Obliquely, the humbled sun
unsettles a cream-coloured
blanket of haze over the canal

and all the junk and excess
ducks, seats, bottles and knots
of rushes collected in corners,

are revealed as wrought in iron
and frayed wool. From the bridge
where the world moves still,

the water seems covered in dust
as if it was left there, laid out to dry
and forgotten about in that dim,

shadow-cast corner of the city,
wedged between great cabinets of
houses covered in broken mirrors.