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