Chairs askew at empty desks, papers shuffled quickly into
piles.
The clock ticks when the office's quiet.
There's a hush that stares out long carpeted corridors;
footsteps have stopped their hurried pacing.
Lights still on and burning
brightly. Shining as a ghost ship sails on a gloomy night.
Only one or two stay.
You know, those ones.
They leave permanent coffee rings marked upon their desks. Blackberries nestled deep inside pinstriped pockets.
Only stepping out once the clock strikes nine, scuttling
under the scolding street lights of London.
Forgetting that just above that sooty fog is a sparkling,
moonlit sky.
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Perfect.
ReplyDeletethis is such a foreign world to me and yet through your words i was immersed ever so briefly. very cool! steven
ReplyDeleteThanks to your posts, I can take a look into those corners of London and its life that I never would have found anywhere else.
ReplyDeleteThank you for the compliment about my sweater. I have to admit there is no pattern. I just do things spontaneously, even in knitting! If you would like to make it; I'll try to put together a little scheme of how it's knitted, and share it with you.