Alley

Alleyways at Dusk

In the hush of twilight’s sigh, the alley wakes,
A narrow vein of stone and shadowed slate,
Where brick walls whisper stories that they make,
And lanterns flicker, soft as a lover’s trait.

Cobblestones glisten with a recent rain,
Each puddle mirrors sky’s bruised‑purple hue;
A cat slips past, its tail a silent train,
Leaving paw‑prints that the night will rue.

The scent of damp earth mixes with warm bread,
From a bakery’s door that yawns ajar;
A distant saxophone, low‑threaded,
Weaves jazz through the gloom, a low‑key tar.

Graffiti blooms in rebellious bright,
A riot of colours—crimson, teal, gold—
Speaking of dreams that burn like neon light,
Of hopes that in the darkness refuse to fold.

Footsteps echo, hesitant yet sure,
A neighbour’s greeting, soft and low,
In this confined theatre, pure,
Where every corner tells a tale we know.

So here, in the alley’s quiet embrace,
Life’s contradictions dance and sway—
A tapestry woven in time and space,
Where shadows linger, yet dawn finds its way.