Catch Me If You Can

Catch Me If You Can

In the mist of Mayfair, I slip past the bustle,
a ghost between the pigeons and the polished boots of the bankers.
“Catch me,” I mutter, a smirk dancing on my lips,
and the hunt is on for the heart‑beat of the city.

The Thames glides by like a silver ribbon,
its current your obstacle, the bridge your wall.
I dart through the streets – Fleet Street, a whisper,
the librarians' shush replacing the horns of the buses.

You’ll find me hiding in the shade of an oak,
where the locals return their cups for a leisurely cuppa.
A swirl of rain in my hat, a biscuit hidden in my pocket,
your pursuit is a game of “you versus you”.

Cadets on bicycles, wind keening the railways,
the matter‑of‑fact patter of the rails cutting the air.
I weave the old tube tunnels, breath steady and quick;
your footsteps echo, but there's always a gap ahead.

Worry stitches my sleeves, but I keep the rhythm,
the safe havens are merely stepping stones,
the line between “caught” and “freedom” thin as a liqueur bottle.

And so I weave, a wisp through the market, a spirit in the alleys,
the chase is a dance, and you, my pursuer, are sorry if you fail.

“Catch me,” I laugh, my voice soft as a lull‑tunes,
Riding the wind’s breath, you’ll never quite own me:
for in every hiding spot, my future is forever the next line,
and I’ll say, “Catch me if you can” – as we go on.