Chinatown

In the heart of the capital, where historic bricks still wear the soot of centuries,
the East unfurls its lanterns, a glow that sways the damp London air
and steals the old‑world mist beneath Columbia’s wool‑scarred sky.

On Queen Street the stalls hum in a chorus—
Szechuan peppers crackle like fire‑white prayers,
and the aroma of soy and star‑fruit leans into the cobbles.
The blue bells of the temple groan a nightly hymn
while the distant echo of a London bus ‑ a rhythm at odds, yet in tune.

Along the alley, every shop‑front is a story:
red‑glazed teahouses, fortune‑tongue stalls, a gold‑leathered chessboard.
The black‑and‑white tiles on the sidewalk reflect the lanterns,
mirroring the flicker of neon beneath the arches.

In this enclave of jade and jade‑the‑furry‑knotted books,
the Ming‑valved door opens to the scent of roast duck,
and the word “welcome” is printed in the ancient characters
that have travelled across oceans, settling into a London lull.

You see a flicker of ceremony—a dragon leaps under a fog‑kissed sky.
The night spills out of the alley, and everyone in Chinatown
finds the city a smudge of saffron against an otherwise grey quilt,
old factories now whispering of dumplings, music, and distant ancestors.

What are we, the loners of this old town, when we taste a bowl of noodles
and realise the world has just a little more colour?