Perfect City

Its mornings are washed in post-storm sunlight; burnishing slate roofs on sleepy-eyed homes; casting shadows on streets dusted down with a baked bread scent.

Its song is the creak and clunk of a front door that fills the world and shakes the sunrise from its slumber; each dawn a melody and rhythm for footfall to fathom.

Its expression is found beneath the weathered surface of stone, steel and spray; an answer half-heard, ever changing in prospect, or the mood of a new arrival.

Its humour burbles like the eager grumble of an engine ticking over, where impatient seconds open up as chasms making the day’s promise seem unreachable.

Its journey carries vessels along paths that defy compass readings to places that threaten opportunity and deliver choices.  Such sustenance can feed and poison.

Its work is methodical and to the point, pausing only for tea and chitchat about biscuits; a mannered preamble to conversation concerning holidays not yet taken.

Its talk is fuelled by mischief, like the wicked joy of a child discovering swear-words, or a playful flirtation between colleagues that’s recognised but never acted upon.

Its dusk shimmers and allows everything to fall from its grasp, save for a few precious remnants; the warming satisfaction that comes from time filled with significance.

Its roads pulse with traffic, viewpoints in transit keen for fresh discoveries; hot rumour of alliances; forsaken appointments and laughter that conceals teeth-gritted envy.

Its care responds to the sound of the wine glass smashing against the wall of the over-priced flat; it’s the arm around the shoulder under the railway arch where tears fall.

Its noise ricochets between buildings and down alleyways like the fade-out on a much-loved refrain, till all that’s discernible is an affectionate whisper of farewell.

Its nights give shelter and tranquillity to the lucky who have avoided its inevitable rain; heavy-eyed thoughts drift and cloud the mind into dreams of a perfect city.