A Short-cut for the Railway Men

Walking from the Hydrant up to Seven Dials last night with the snow coming down. Didn't stick, ground too wet. Looking up through the spiralling moth-flutters at the railway bridge. A path up the embankment to the tracks - a short cut for railway workers? - and the path is lined by airport-bright lamps.
I watch a man walk down the steps.
There are two bridges here, a curiously indescribable gap between them. The bridges - both bridges - are huge. Dark and Satanically alluring mills of stone and lights and track-song, the earthquake-rhythm of trains making their journeys, unmappable from underneath.
Another man, from under one of the bridges, takes a picture with the loud click of a camera that sounds like an old SLR.
I look back to see what he has taken a photograph of, but all I see is a bleak February night; headlights and Thursdays and burgers in Wetherspoons and science fiction anthologies I didn't buy in the charity shop down London Road.