The cars rattle along the busy road
The smell of February rises in steam
And as the tyres sigh into the tarmac
The sky is an orange mistake,
Burnt and victorious.
I see in the distance
Canary Wharf and its tall companions
Struck silver against the violent sky,
Like a child's impression of a city skyline
Only in miniature.
The white-noise hum of London
Puts pressure on my head,
The voices, cars, drills;
It’s mirrored in the sky
Which turns a clashing pink.
A split of blinding sun
Creeps through a snag in the sky,
And all the drivers
Pull down the visors,
And traffic moves
Like a choreographed metal dream.