You have to walk what feels like
the entire city and tiptoe across
the mother-river to Custom House Quay
pass the evergrey sky blocking light
on mismatched office blocks and time
and pause to gaze up at the latest mural
which, as a rainbow comic strip reel,
makes less sense than from faraway.
You have to gather your breathing
after that last cigarette, in control
of next to nothing, and yet, the
flowing water aches alongside you
and a barren stretch unfolds where gulls walk
near the feet of seven bronze Famine Walkers
who cry out, like ghosts without throats,
starved from some semblance of ease, or yesterday.