A spark of metal,
driven up from below,
scratching the sky with a witchy fingernail, grey.
Cranes cling to the side like skeletal kings Kong,
inching their way up and looking down on us all.
Muddy, builder's tea coloured clouds
obscure the point, the apex, the top;
swallowing it up in a large-scale vanishing act.
The clawing windows yearn for sun,
to glint the rays back off itself and
into open plan offices in its view,
giving hope and life, and light.
But not today.
It is shrouded, buried deep in a fog of brown sky,
its widest point, the base, all we can see.
It is a giant's impression of hide and seek,
and as the rain hammers on our
smooth and faceless buildings,
we forget it is there, and go back to our computer screens,
and back to talking about the weather,
and think about making tea.