Ghosts are leaving the office blocks,

they writhe into the air like boiler steam,

drift in the cold dawn breeze and disappear.

 

A March sky flecked with nectarine.

Through golden oil the slow sun floats

and flames the terraced silhouettes.

 

Our own boiler takes its first full breath

and fires. A pump remotely churns, water courses;

soon I’ll hear the piping wake and stretch.

 

Outside, the city’s dynamo winds up, roundabouts

begin to clog and public lights, in gangs, switch off.

The alarm clocks have been primed, and tense.

 

 

© Trevor Parsons