Unphotographable Porto

She’s up early.
Breath like stone dust.

The streets are wet, always –
from rain, from hosepipes,
from the river breathing uphill.

A crane grinds,
coughs steel into the mist.

Laundry strung like rosaries,
a dog beneath blue tiles,
a grandmother climbing cobbles
with her shopping.

Tiles crack.
Paint flakes.
Tramline veins, granite seams,
seagulls with opinions.

Someone parks sideways
on a defiant hill
and calls it luck.

They try to photograph her.
She turns slightly.
Comes out blurry.
Good.

She doesn’t need to be loved.
She’s old as ages.
She wants the cracks to remain hers.