A poem capturing the rush hour moments of London.

@thirty_five_photo

Legs walking, strides flowing.
Eyes drawn to street.
Water droplets, waxed macintoshes, running, sliding, glistening.
Creased leather, worn soles.
Open collars, closed expressions.
Mouths talking to distant ears, satellites in overdrive.
Halogen bulbs, glaring, cutting, guiding traffic.
Monochrome suitcases, passports clutched.

Steam taps squeal, shots pour.
Windows fog, condensation builds, shelter beckons.
Order taken, umbrellas left.
Dusting of sugar.
Brickwork fading, London resemblant.
Flashes of deep red, bus lights waning.
Red. Amber. Green.
Revolving doors spin, coat and tails stand to attention.

Crowded tunnels, heads rushing.
Woollen coats, turned up collars.
Turned down colours.
Scanning, beeping, digital currency changing IP address.
Pin stripes, short-sights, hair-ties, overalls and oily cotton.
Horn-rimmed, wire-framed, spectacles.
OLED displays, haptics, pockets-whirring.
Fingers on hot glass.

Wheels on steel rails, voice recording.
Carriages empty, then full, then empty.
Steel and glass, cubicle workers, still online.
Pages turned, sound waves received.
Knowledge imparted, time saved.
Journeys embarking, days closing.
Seats taken, overheads swaying, announcement blaring.
Darkness cut-open, lights synchronised.

Peace. RH.

I usually write about coffee, tech or travel but often take meandering diversions. I co-founded a content agency: tencontent.co.uk

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