The snow drifts silently down,

feather touch, soft and beautiful

against the flash of the camera

which lights up the scene in Sefton Park.

An everyday photograph of a park bench

in winter, deserted, surrounded by claustrophobic emptiness,

by time standing still and in the distance

a bell calls the man home, a clock

striking midnight, magic happens

in dark lonely places, as the man

pulls his coat tight around his snow covered shoulders,

and it wouldn’t be till the morning,

when the man returned to the scene