Quayside

A poem

Twilight falters.
The calidity is disconcerting at this time of night.
My burning feet slide uncertainly across a bridge,
magnificently curved, so I can’t see the other side.

The Tyne looks up
and sends a lazy, laid-back ripple
like a reassuring smile.
She winds her way between the docks
as humidity condenses, weaving downwards
between my vertebrae,
rivers along my spine.

He’s waiting,
where the city’s sweat has crystalized,
arranging coppers as magnesium collects
in grooves
where dirty water’s dried.

I spy him hunched there on the quayside:
same spot as last night,
watching people wander past
in twos and threes,
talking and laughing
— they avert their eyes.

He bows his head as I approach
then lifts his chin, receives the food,
hauls bones to vertical to tell me
“you’re an angel”. Awkwardly,
my insides shine.

Scents rise in hot air:
piss-soaked cobbles, mess from Kittiwakes.
I weave along the walkway,
Gateshead sticks to me
and the sky finally gives in to dark.

Tonight my privilege feels scratchy,
hot and heavy,
like a military blanket that I can’t shrug off.
The fan drowns out the gulls
but not the sights and smells
of a city sleeping.
Rough.

© Amy Knight 2022

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