It’s a hot night. We walk the highwalk
from the tube. The concrete walls
seep warmth and we smell

garden flowers, hear city church bells,
loiter in the odd sweet spot until
the sound of water falling

tugs us on. Lakeside, we know
if there’s a muse
of concrete, she lives

here, inside these buildings
made of crushed Welsh
granite and of rain. Through

the doors and now our ears
are caves, our minds
cathedrals of flash and glow,

until we are beside ourselves and
our hearts have softened in our bodies
and when we go back out the street is silk.