London's Summer Morning (2025)
Richard
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After Mary Robinson
Who has not stirred to hear restless hum
Of London waking, bathed in amber light?
screech of buses, chatter in the streets,
The whoosh cyclists weaving past in streams,
While neon vests of blaze like fire
On scaffolded horizons. At the door,
courier drops a parcel, scanning codes,
A takeaway bag at his side.
Now coffee machines whirr in glass-fronted shops,
And oat-flat-white seekers queue in droves.
On every corner, stalls gleam with hues—
Mango, dragon fruit, and avocados ripe—
While buskers pluck at strings or drum on tins,
rhythms swallowed by the sirens' wail.
Along the pavement, pace their miles,
Earbuds humming podcasts, heads downturned.
The exhales its gusts of heat,
As screens announce delays sterile tones.
Through sliding doors, the weary office swarm
out, lattes in hand, as newsfeeds scroll
Across impatient thumbs.
Now sunlit glass ignites the towering spires
Of corporate kingdoms; power-suited ghosts
Glide past graffiti scrawled on shuttered shops.
vans perfume the air with scents of spice,
As banter over steaming woks.
At dusk, the rooftop gardens with life,
Cocktails raised to city skylines, while below,
pavement poets dream of better days—
And London, ever-changing, along.