LAST TIME

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.