Predawn On A London Alley

Last night’s bonfires have not yet been fully snuffed

While the sky turns from a jet black naught to fifty shades of blue

A tree desperately clings to the clouds to tell his story

Soul-carrying planes high above race to some final destination

Pub lights are still shimmering, you could almost hear the tinkle

Of ice cubes having a Titanic affair in a tumbler

And the crystal laughter of lighthearted girls

Gory crimson grins at the deadly tip of a lipstick…

Photo and Ramblings by Hugh Ardoin