Morning in London (Alba)

Green and grey gravel streets
are no more than awakening
shadows as the light of the lamps
stretch out onto the early rising dusk.
And headlights from old
Mercedes blink warily
in the frozen dawn;
Here amongst the London sea.

But the rays can't,
won't penetrate through
her bamboo shutters and
she's peeling herself
up off the floor, rubbing
her salted eyes and glancing
at the time:
Half Five.

There's a smell of cold,
stale beer sticking to her
bleach blond shoulder
length hair and the streets
haven't woken yet but
in the Kenyan mountains
the boiling coffee
in her two year old
cracked valentine mug is
already being harvested
and the flipperty flop
of silver fluffy slippers
slide up the stairs
and onto her balcony.

As if she was the Queen,
to her north the spread
of high rise concrete
tower blocks and patches
of colour in Hammersmith green;
she gazes at the morning scene,
Here amongst the London sea.

She's watching out of here.
Gazing out into the headaches
and pains of a thousand
commuters, urban dwellings
and late trains, packed
undergrounds and fruit
market venderers.

She's breathing in the smell of
fumes and trying to
remember all the details
and jigsaw pieces of what
happened in the blue light of
last night, trying to figure out
the weaving tapestries of life and
stains of adultery.
Lover. Mistress. Friend.
 
Lover. Object. Lady.
A tear drops down from her
eyes in the morning light,
She's at the end of it.
She's at the start of it.
What if she died?
She died a prostitute.

And inside the room a subtle
stiring from a pig faced man.
Like a watchman hollering from
a tower, warning her of a
jealous husband; perhaps she
is, perhaps she's married to the job.

But to the south, below and beneath
urban scrubs and sweltering mountains
is her true love, fighting the wars that
diplomats couldn't stop and peace couldn't
hold back.

She's kissing the only thing
that reminds her of him;
Her two year old valentine mug.  

Here amongst the London sea,
Here amongst the London smog.