The December night, silently
freezes the hurdy gurdy:
the steam horses and burnt burgers.
The lights are pin prick bright.
At the edge of darkness, we sit
as she smokes her cigarette.
Their small gloves are warmly wet:
hot chocolate sipped, then spilt.
The big wheel turns above Medway’s
dark and mutinous waves and
waits, on hold, cradling time in space.
And then it turns again.
