On the winter-swept platform,
Pools of water, like lakes of molten silver
Some, mirror-like, hold pieces of clear, blue sky
Others, melancholy, grey clouds.
Elsewhere, on the road. Puddles,
lagoons in a desert of tarmac. A tyre,
sending out teardrops of pewter.
Briefly they capture galaxies of light.
After, they meld back into the black surface
Where they wait, for one more flight in the sun.