Storm clouds bruise the sky.
The day is fading
Winter’s ghost draws near
Gathering the light.
The old clock tower,
Illuminated against the broken night
Shivers and chimes,
The hour echoing into the past before it’s heard
As a downpour settles on the city,
More ice than rain,
It pools in uneven slabs,
As women, who’d swapped heels for flats,
Moulded into scarfs,
Hurry on its mirrored concert.
City gents, with their formal brollies,
Struggle against the snatch of the wind
In heavy, charcoal coats.
Others caught outside take cover
Watching the overflow from loose guttering
Before heading inside for another round and standing room only,
A later tube beckoning,
Leaving cigarettes to dampen and wash away
And pint glasses, line up on the window ledge,
A hawker, with brollies,
Turns into the grey
Finding shelter in a padlocked doorway,
Posters peeling and weathered with bankruptcy.
He lights a cigaret©te,
Away from the deluge
And takes a well-earned break.
Copyright ©RMC September 2019