Suddenly flurries of snow
muffle the copper coloured gas works,
and write a language on the river
of dabs and whispers,
each flake adding to a glossary
of flow. Roars tumble down the weir,
the soundtrack of a city
stalked by cranes and diggers,
where our map-lines no more hold
than the shadows of clouds.
When I cut across the bridge,
I taste a hundred years of brick dust;
above me, windows of blank new-builds
ripple with white noise.