Diora

By midwinter,
the darkness glitters
in the streets of the centre – and the shops
are divided up by bright plateaus of black slabs.
By midwinter – everything is drowned and damned.
It’s pitch by four and water pours
with steady determination down,
up from where the weather starts
and stars are hung behind pollution –
by midwinter,
the street lamps make the movement –
sluicing yellow, licking white –
the paving stones are usually blind,
but by midwinter
they can see the sky.
The paving stones
can see the sky
in liquid pools
of midnight sight.
They can see it
pouring out.
They can see it
arcing wide.
The paving stones
can see the sky.

And they can see Diora.