Eight

In the quiet quiet of a London evening’s glow,
I count the eight brass‑band notes that swell,
Each rung a promise, each hymn a gentle oath—
A rhythm of a town where bargains never fell.

The 8‑seat bus sits parked beneath the Thames,
Its doors still open for a morning’s rush,
While street‑lamps hum a spectral, amber flame,
The night’s own copper‑coloured, gentle hush.

The eight children in the park, a kaleidoscope,
Their laughter rings like bells at midnight bells—
They trudge through puddles, chasing faded rope,
Each step a story in the city’s spells.

So to the number I raise a silent toast,
A figure slight, yet eight full brings us home.