The storm debris of yesterday draws a leitmotif
of poems from the ordinary eddies on the stream.
Beneath Newcastle Christmas lights, a confederacy
of dreamers breeze the streets of King and Queen.
There is also synchronicity – this being the eve
of Saint Nicholas (‘… archers and repentant thieves’) –
I see one glove in need of another, and another on the quay;
two mirrors between stories in the Baltic Gallery.
There is a quiet to the mill; not silence
quite; not quite, but, still
enough to keep real life in abeyance.
The art is mostly hopeless and best avoided before pizza:
although a water coloured, pen and ink –
study of a kingfisher –
on the 3rd floor, by the rivered window,
The tea in the cafe is pay-as-you-please.