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