North by Northwest

North by North‑West

In a fog‑kissed London street the night unfurls,
The weight of velvet moon against the Thames,
An image flickers on the silver screen—
A stranger’s silhouette, an off‑beat song.

A map laid open, a line tufts northwards,
A compass that refuses to obey;
Its needle drifts like a spooked gull, past
The edge of a city where clock‑ticks roar.

The flick of a reel, the trembling of the eye,
A cat-and-mouse chase in grand old villas,
The wraith‑like figure of a double‑face,
Pursued by a trio of shadowy crooks.

Terror hangs in a theatre’s pale air,
The stillness of a great brass choir,
A tambourine that stutters from a black‑and‑white heart,
All of which daring the audience to hold breath.

With quintessential British lilt we confess,
The scene’s not only a film, but a rite,
A homage to an Artie taste of snappy suspense,
We watch and we clutch the ancient antique of a mystery.

The first click, the final pause, we lay a deejay,
We artisans of guilt writ on the sound stage,
We move to the north‑west, to a world that’s unknown,
In the dust we trickle to a swirl of an epic about data.

So raise a cup of steaming black, the kettle hiss,
And let’s speak the old line: “North by north‑west.”
The path unravels like a soldered thread
In the particular rhythm of a (Hitchcock) compass.