Before Sunset

Before Sunset

At the lip of the evening the day gives up
a trembling green, the blue‑shaped cloud quivers –
The Thames, in its forgotten silence,
rubs a blue‐white hand over the old stone.

A boy on the high road wanders, shirt slipped,
his sneakers scuffed with the rush of buses.
He dangles a can of fire‑cracked cola
from between his fingers, a quiet dare.

The sky is a soft‑painted bruise,
saffron hovers above the rooftops.
A wind remembers the sea’s lullaby,
and the whisper of a train – a clarified hum.

In this half‑hour lane of memory,
the world feels full of promises,
the black‑and‑white world of the photographs
now flickering into colour, from a light‑veiled epoch.

The sun, still shy, presses its face on the horizon,
says, “Only a moment, mate – rest your breath.”
The day tip‑toes out, leaving a hot salt‑smell,
the last breath of the blanching trans‑Atlantic breeze.

There is no rush, only a stillness that sweetly pleases.
The afternoon curls itself, and on the left sits the day – soften.