In the wake of London

 

White flowers bloomed all over—

not in gardens, but on the branches of trees that had long forgotten spring.

They stood still, coated in frost, fragile as memory.

The coldness in the air bit at exposed skin,

but no one flinched—Londoners had long made peace with the grey.

Jets carved white lines across the pale sky,

like careless signatures on a blank page,

reminders of places far away and dreams that once felt closer.

People in deep slumber,

not just in beds behind fogged windows,

but in trains, in buses, in lives—

sleepwalking through routine, eyes glazed, souls paused.

Cigarette smoke curled upward,

a ghostly ballet disappearing into the chill,

its scent clinging to denim jackets and broken promises.

Red boxes with wheels moved along wet roads,

double-deckers glowing like embered lanterns,

each carrying its own quiet stories,

none of them intersecting for long.

The smell of loneliness lingered in the crowded station,

thick as perfume—

not sadness exactly, but a silence between strangers

that no one dared to bridge.

And then—

baby blue eyes peeked through the veil of a covered stroller,

wide, wondering, untouched by the city’s weary rhythm.

A softness, unknowing. A beginning.