[close the aperture]
three boys, at the tyne’s edge, sit, in silhouette, atop some metal structure that they should not be sat atop. a gang on a gangway. their legs hang beneath them. they have liberated one of the wreaths from the gravel of the nearby merchant seamans’ memorial. they talk measuredly, loudly, as they methodically strip the garland, but I cannot make out their words. the paper poppy petals, one by one, are snatched away & festoon the breeze or else are drawn down into the leaving river. i fill a pan with some water.
i close the window.
a tiny, tiny spider climbs the glass on a thread – god knows to where, or why or toward what end.