Rush

Rush

At the tick of a five‑o’clock metronome,
the city unfurls its iron heart.
A lorry pulls by the car‑park, doors wide,
its stubborn breath of petrol draped over the crowd.

Queue after queue—quiet bulls in line,
each waiting for that moment when steel releases air,
when the tube’s black‑ink doors crack open and the world hurries back into rhythm.

The Thames pushes a slow, steady rush of water,
whispers against the lox‑hatwood footbridge,
its surface catching the light of a sun that finds light in the river’s keep.

Inside the train, a symphony of footfalls and sighs,
the delicate clink of a cheque against a plastic grip,
the hush that settles between breath‑holds: the rush of a thought, a heartbeat.

When the last whistle blows, the rush takes shape in a rush of anticipation,
in the snap of a leather shuttle’s tail, in a cup of tea held in a trembling hand.
It is the pulse of the city, the quick‑silver colour of possibility,
the favourite contact of breath and will – a rush that never, truly, ends.