London: One Night

Inspired by On The Road, I decided to walk from Blackfriars to the Worlds End and back in the rain. It was lovely. Enlivened by a few whiskies, I came back and wrote this. I like it:



So it is what it was and is - a walk through the greased and shining city streets in bruised darkness, to the known via the unknown. A sideward glance eight fifty two, beat red man from Bankside cross, all sliding lights, water and cobbles, up to monument, memories and events that didn't happen, but for the sake of a story, perhaps did.



Hard up by stations only seen from the inside, roads never walked before, umbrellas and sellers writhing for a way down current-pushed pavement. Puddles mirror streams of walkers, water, water everywhere, and where to get a drink? Nobody to shock-stop, no Bem to chime an end, one foot in front of t'other, forward gleefully as past and present blend.



Through intersections nudges plastic mind with all the answers. In pocketback keeps us safe, a blue line in the familiar, confirming confidence, doubling resolve in the rain. On you go, he chides, on, on, on.



Starting to bleed familiar now, old tracks amid streetlights and convenience stores that could be anywhere, but are definitely here and now and right; blue line and fragile little instincts, flickering, light the same page at last.



Forward through the drizzle, light of foot, fleet of mind and quick of heart, too warm for the rain to counter, too hot to be cold, the only answer forward. One foot in neon, one in guttertaxi, chickenbone ranks, first Bloomsbury, then old giant Euston. A great, dark-shouldered bulk over the way, stone guard of the City's North, hunched on the Roman road; an ogre sleeping on a chain. Still after all these times and souls, he sits and waits.



Then break in the gloaming, and things come familiar as trust in the route returns. Tired and hungry in the spray and bluelight violins, through twinkling, past revelries, new loves and drunks. In shadow, away from scenes, a homeless man locks gates on the tireless cold with one blue blanket, a scrawled face cowed under a hoarfrost mourning. One forgotten, facing more than we know, with less than we carry. Our crouched hero shivers, resolute.



Further again, lights trigger memory as a goal looms. Noise - warm, deep and infinite, broils at the world's end. Warm whiskey rewards stoke fired to carry the wayward home as the underworld shakes below.



Pool hall Maggie teases Mr Blue Sky, who cuts clouds from minds eyes in the queue, all triplets and love. So long, so long, son. Hot stones and warm spice start me up as the sky seethes and the wind cries Mary, beckoning back the way we came. Rain everpresent now quickens, beating woebegone streets, oiling unseen wheels that push tired limbs home on that little blue line, to a bed not owned.









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