Tower

It stands where black cabs halt and double-deckers creak,
A needle of glass threading through the smog’s soft grey,
Watching lorries groan and pavement puddles speak
Of rain that’s come to stay (or just to play).

The sparrows treat its ledge as coastal cliff,
Building nests where steel reaches for the sky,
While down below, a child stands stiff
With neck back, wondering if it can fly.

At night, it wears a crown of blinking light,
A quiet sentinel ’til dawn’s pale gleam,
Dreaming not of height, but of keeping right
Its feet upon the ground—a London dream.
(Just try not to wobble when the wind’s extreme.)