They throw light onto the old buildings
here at night. St. George’s Hall leans forward
on its haunches, flags flapping out of sight.

Midnight the clang of cast-iron gates.
Outliving his monument, Wellington wakes.
Cathedral candles snuffed out, the moon clears.

No open-top buses, no night-time tours.
Nothing to sightsee but the spectres
of sea-birds remembering flight.