To move slowly at the bench
and cupboards of a lit-up kitchen,
to watch a woman do this
and then walk on. To turn
into a narrow street that falls
down the hill to docks, tangled lines
of cranes, carriages, cargo,
night spark of the city
across the bay.

To see the moon from a back window,
netted by branches of bare trees,
to be aware that people notice the moon
looking up from their preparations,
to walk on quicker, to prevent contact
disturbing the slow, soft air,
early brush of winter evening.
To unload shopping from an opened car,
to rub fur and whiskers against a tyre,
a kind of greeting, caress of ownership,
to leave a trace, to move on
leave black cat and bending man
with the weight and light of home.

To feel the moon behind my shoulder now,
steady, clear in a colder region
above the deep routine of evening
inside and outside houses,
quiet movement of this suburb on a planet.
To be glad the next gate is my own.