Before Sunrise

Before Sunrise

The city still breathes in a hush of damp and the last of the night’s laughter dissolved into the soot‑kissed cobbles as mist curls around traffic lights, softening edges.

On the pavement a lone high‑chair, swelled with the weight of a folded cot. The cat, a rouge with a ring of moon‑gold, ponders the horizon but the lullaby of the street coracle remains undisturbed, a quiet lull in the footstep of dawn.

A gumshoe in a trench coat scratches the wood of his jacket; the bell on the old bus car tinkles like a note from an old country tune.

The tea is steeping in the kettle, kettle shrieks, and steam rises in a delicate waltz there where a woman sorts wedding rings on the sill of her apartment, counting
the silent minutes ten times over.

The sky is a slate of blue bruising into a rose, a scrawled reminder that night fabric will finally flicker over the river to meet the pale sun.

And when the world awakes his colours, the air will be thick with the scent of freshly baked scones, the diesel of a lorry, the salt of the Thames.

Before the sunrise, there is a quiet trance, a suspended breath that the day will call the moment at the edge of every heartbeat.