London's Summer Morning (2025)

After Mary Robinson

Who has not stirred to hear the restless hum
Of London waking, bathed in amber light?
The screech of buses, chatter in the streets,
The whoosh of cyclists weaving past in streams,
While neon vests of builders blaze like fire
On scaffolded horizons. At the door,
The courier drops a parcel, scanning codes,
A takeaway bag swinging at his side.

Now coffee machines whirr in glass-fronted shops,
And oat-flat-white seekers queue in droves.
On every corner, fruit stalls gleam with hues—
Mango, dragon fruit, and avocados ripe—
While buskers pluck at strings or drum on tins,
Their rhythms swallowed by the sirens' wail.

Along the pavement, runners pace their miles,
Earbuds humming podcasts, heads downturned.
The underground exhales its gusts of heat,
As screens announce delays in sterile tones.
Through sliding doors, the weary office swarm
Spills out, lattes in hand, as newsfeeds scroll
Across impatient thumbs.

Now sunlit glass ignites the towering spires
Of corporate kingdoms; power-suited ghosts
Glide past graffiti scrawled on shuttered shops.
Food vans perfume the air with scents of spice,
As traders banter over steaming woks.

At dusk, the rooftop gardens glow with life,
Cocktails raised to city skylines, while below,
The pavement poets dream of better days—
And London, ever-changing, hums along.