The Red Shoes

In the crackle of the cobbles, a whispered colour swirls—
the scarlet‑stitched promise of the red shoes, bright as a heart in summer.

They sit upon the lamppost, draped in a cobweb of alchemy,
a pair that dare to tread where ordinary footsteps hesitate.

On rain‑slicked pavements, the soles drink London’s damp breath,
and every sigh of the city turns to a soft, reluctant clappin’ of their lace.

The shoes, a daring crown, ask the street itself:
“Will you follow me, or bow to the damp, indifferent night?”

Their rhythm, a drumbeat in the alley, ignites a sparkle beneath the dust,
as if the very cobbles themselves could taste the embers of a hopeful stride.

In alleys where time bends and the Thames whispers secrets,
the red shoes hum stories of a past ache and of future possibilities.

With each step, a memory steps forward——a child's laugh now stitched into the heel,
and a lover’s plea that lingers like a shadow, thick and sweet.

They glide past the market, past the fountain that chants in bronze,
and turn the mundane into a dance that breathes metallic rhythm.

Tall trees, just once poised, bow down to the pride of their parade,
matching their pulse with the echo of birdsong, so close, so quick.

The shoes learn the city's pulse, and learn the human body’s longing,
for the strange interplay of fancy and foot, lace and loo.

They feel the chill of winter’s breath, the kiss of December’s quiet,
and yet hold no fear, for they burn the courage into every tread.

When night falls, the red shoes shoulder the memory of daylight,
and step into the moonlit hush, still bright with promised mirth.

They do not ask for souvenir or ask for applause;
their work is a quiet revolution—shoe‑to‑shoe, heart‑to‑heart.

In the hush of the city, they leave the world a little brighter,
a pair of red shoes that are forever loved, forever remembered.