Paper Moon

Paper Moon

In the hush of a rain‑slick London evening,
a child’s crayon‑smudged moon rises—
white paper folded with trembling fingers,
glimmering with a silver hope that refuses to fall.

It hangs, a quiet defiant glow,
against the brick‑lit gloom of Fleet Street,
its edges fluttering like a nervous sparrow
in a wind storm. Around it, the Thames murmurs its own song.

The paper moon knows the taste of constellations;
it has watched the soot‑smudged sky of miners’ graves,
the glitter of May nights in Hyde Park, the electric thrill of Union Street’s lights.

Yet it remains, a charming, fragile hope—
a reminder that even in soot and soot‑stained dreams,
green‑lit futures still arise, paper‑thin, yet ever bright.