I cycle home to East London after a heavy autumn shower. The wet tarmac sparkles in the evening sun; pictures of blue sky in puddles. Anatomically sharp.
dead cigarette butts
float in the oily puddle
Down an alley of plane trees that arch above me like a gothic cathedral, the canopy dense and dark, stretching right into the sky, poking holes through which the evening light falls like through a coloured stained glass window. The stems of the trees are dark pillars that hold.
bark peels off the plane trees
camouflaged in a war
Getting home at dusk. The red side gate opens into the narrow alley way. The old brick wall with my finger prints: imperfectly repointed to hold it upright. The bike shed: a palace with silver lining, it’ll need water proofing before the winter. The lights are on in the kitchen.