London Sky

A poem about London, by someone in a slow burn romance with it.

Here is a world without sky.
Tiles and bricks clamber
over each other,
racing to a top
they do not remember.
The sunsets like rosé wine
watered down, when
artists paint them amber.

Here is a world without air.
Dense stagnation pressing
through hot exhausts,
spices sweat from meat
on street stands, in effervescing
oils. Cigarettes and Chanel
thickly interlace,
choking and caressing.

Here they make their own sky.
Here to the horizon,
the matchbox stacks
of lives on top of lives
continuously run.
The jumble of chaoses
eclipse and inflame
arrays of electric suns.

Here the stars are all spangled
in glitter dusts and sequins,
bejewelled party girls,
saris like dawn clouds,
ravens in tattoo ink.
The rooftops dense as snow,
each one unique,
fix the city down like pins.

Here they weave their own air.
As brimming trains arrive,
scents cascade,
Babel reunites,
saxophones, steel drums collide,
teeming calls and crazes.
The world in situ,
all reeling and alive.

Thank you for reading! For more writing you can find me on Instagram and Twitter @shawberrytart xx