Bradford – Sheffield, Dec, 6.30pm

Red dot needles.
Outlines
of masts
on moortops.

Rolls of orange
pinprick glints
that stop
and leave clear space.

Before the barren rise
night’s dark
devours the hill line,
the details.

Aside of streetlamps
and the blinked
warning lights,
only the horizon

below urban tumult’s glow,
which tricks life aviary
into believing it is day,
offers navigation.

It isn’t needed, though.
as the bus coasts.
I’m not knee deep in mud,
compass in hand.

I’m sat, silently
relaxed.
The driver knows
where to go.

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