By Zoe Maynard
White lights speed past
my body. Screeching screams
escape from the track, the
doors fly open.
No hustling and bustling
like in rush hour mayhem, the
carriage has a scrunched up
newspaper to keep me company.
Outside the station, the eye
watches me as she turns
full circle. Without blinking,
she watches the city sleep.
The Thames, her beloved
friend, swims past the decaying
walls of parliament,
and sighs.
Crown jewels glimmer inside
the Tower of London, away
from the prying, intrusive
eyes.
The Shard, still awake, looks
across the miniscule buildings,
Canary Wharf catches his gaze
and winks.
St. Paul’s will not bow down
to the illuminated dome, the O2
that roars with music. He prays
in silence.
Red, white and blue, the soldiers
protect the sleeping Palace walls,
and Her Majesty treasures her
sixty-five year reign.
These visions curtsy in front
of her ageing eyes. I pull out
a fiver for the next train, and
she smiles back at me.
Wells Street Journal 