Above the city, low grey clouds

promise another short, dark day

which no one will remember. Crowds

go down into the Underground

to pop up postal codes away

like items from the Lost and Found.


I should have slept another hour

when they’d be tucked behind their screens

consoled by work’s false sense of power.

I’d wake, and peep at empty streets

and wonder what the morning means

by stopping when my heart still beats.


O City, tell me where the past

is hiding in your A to Z,

so that I might track down at last

the reason for your parlous state.

Until you do, I’m back to bed:

please tell the crusty world to wait.

First published in HQ Poetry Magazine number 46, April 2016