On the shortest night of the year Beneath me I can see Manchester: The red bricks of my suburb, The grey stone of the city, The hospital I was born in. (though the confusing haze of heat and car exhausts ruins the view through my binoculars) Tired people must be running Through heat and dirt To catch buses on dual carriageways Feeling out of place amid The darkness, car parks, and light pollution, But I am far away from that: Though the city appears still and silent The Bowstones are truly immovable - Deformed stone crosses from the past, Cross-pieces long since missing, High up in isolated moorland - They reassure me, I grow cold and thoughtful Watching streetlamps switch on. A few hours ago it was a hot and horrid day on the crowded five o'clock bus home from work, packed in with sweating students and commuters. But now that is over; Instead I see a field, a hill, Dry stone wall with a decaying stile. The sun finally leaves the sky, I shiver. Binoculars yield nothing but yellow glare, Vague silhouettes of towerblocks, Or roads picked out by lights That shake with my hands. As streetlights grow brighter, The city glows, Predicting darker nights And wintry cold.