The streets are dark.

Tyre-gnashing cobbles, grumblingly predict

the stalking of cars.

Stride wide and stomp down each foot,

the road is broken-toothed.

Stride wide, nocturnal-sure, lift only foot

when next step is sure.

Walk peasant-firm,

the way you learned on the surf-clawed shore

at Collaroy. There, where a fall

would earn grated flesh

and torn clothes prompted barnacled tongues,

not sympathy.

Wrap your towel to ease your hurts, rinse it out

on your return.

Starlight does not caress Kiev,

tonight.

We weave by intuition, a loose pack of shoaling

Orcas. We crave unfamiliar treats,

something creamy-custard-decadent with

red wine, green tea, rich chocolate.

In the distance, spy

strange obtrusion, a slatted, pitching thing

that floats above eye, beetles

over road – a gondola moored? A Viking ship

unearthed, peat-darkened,

cable-suspended in Copenhagen museum.

 Here...

shall we take seats? Stare...

into unaccommodating dark, rest elbows

on eye-scalding white, drink chocolat, so thick,

it beads like mercury upon spoons,

relive,

excited fingers stabbing night,

the wonders

of Tchaikovsky's masterpiece -

Nutcracker Suite.

Oh.... oh....

ambient candles make a Caravaggio

of our praise –

firelight flickers - hold back

the night,

may frail light forbid last curtain

call.