In the year of our Lord, twenty twenty-four,
A warm respite doth bless this summer’s shore,
For winter’s grip did hold till June’s refrain,
Yet now the sun bestows her light again.
I sit in London’s West End, where the chic convene,
Where al fresco coffee and tattooed throngs are seen.
The cityscape a curious sight to behold,
As I, a poet of the past, see tales unfold.
Ah, what strange visage greets my nineteenth-century eye,
Boarded shops and beggars where commerce did lie.
In doorways dark, where merchants once held sway,
Now souls forlorn in shadows softly pray.
The street’s alive with drinkers, carefree and loud,
Amidst a throng, a bustling, diverse crowd.
Amplified buskers fill the air with tune,
Yet the stench of weed doth mar the afternoon.
Chuggers, they accost with fervent plea,
Cyclists and couriers, ignoring each decree,
They weave through chaos, heedless of the throng,
In this modern dance, a city’s dissonant song.
Killer dogs, they roam with leash held loose,
Sweary students, youthful, with abandon let loose.
‘Tis a cacophony of life in varied hue,
Yet beneath, an undercurrent, a world askew.
I sip my coffee, in this era estranged,
Wondering how society’s mores have changed.
The beauty of the day, so rare and bright,
Contrasts starkly with the city’s plight.
Oh, England, in your first beautiful day,
What stories your streets and alleys convey.
A poet’s heart doth ache and yet adore,
This modern world so altered, yet so much more.
Verbal Alchemy 