Pendulum

On a bench with a broken back
a woman smokes a cigarette,
the dog-end glows, ashes.
I am stuck in the city’s throat,
nobody knows me here.
My eyes roam tarmac veins
& overhead, sky so saccharine
you can virtually taste it.
Stood in a charity shop’s cavity
I watch it blaze & fade.
I see my Mum’s cinnamon stick
fingers busy making roll-ups,
allotting them in tidy rows.
The woman’s face appears
from the smoke like a prophet.
A pigeon tucks into nothing.
I offer my hands out to the cold,
here they are — open & empty.
Time drags her battered hems.