Perched on radiator stools in savage chill
round as two Bingo numbers in Victorian
fingerless gloves and twenty-two layers
of floral patterns, they sew table-linens
and pile them into shambolically stacked
riots of pre-Christmas colour to rival
windbeaten cheeks. Made in Korea, labels
boast, our octogenarians, all-watching,
all-seeing, oracles seamlessly linking
stalls and shops and mopeds piled
impossibly tall and wide with boxes.
Relics of a century ago, offering eyes
that will never rest upon a fish-finger sandwich.

one of those winter-mitts
on Seoul mopeds:
something obscure that nobody except
those who have been there
will discover.

Something
essential,
functional,
personal,
seasonal.

I'll be drifting effortlessly
through crowded streets at 3am,
illuminated by barbershop signs,
neons, late office screens and lights
and flickering video-walls
the size of football pitches perched
precariously atop the sky-high-scrapers
and through cinnamon-scented pancake steam
oozing from roadside truck-stalls,

preserving fingertips,
tired from typing
to clasp in a bar
around a Souju
and the first meal of the day.

This was my car at the time. I sold it in 2004.

two men and a ladder
tend trees

swaddling gently
in hessian wrap

December lights illuminating
gentle faces binding tightly

- city taxis glitter by -

shaping trunks like feet to fit
some ancient tradition.