I lost the first blush of morning, plane trees naked on West End Lane waiting for footsteps, cars and buses. Salted air, toddlers in knitted hats, drainpipe jeans and tethered gloves; conversation chirrups on. The last blush came and left, a blackbird creeps into his nest; the city sighs and turns to night. The moon, a silver ring-pull rests, the city sighs and turns to night. Shereen Abdallah ©
Bonnie Braw Press 