Bats over The Brent.
Soft shadows swoop over tainted water’s edge,
Fluttering, gathering, circling tree-limbs high,
As hurried buses, cars, sigh, rolling by no wiser
In the deepest night, where I’m but a stranger,
Entraced by the gentle, lightless, hurried dance,
Soaring, fluttering on, like delicate sweet ghosts.