the All too Early Birds

As soon as I wake

I dream about the time I can go back to dreaming

A morning

An afternoon

And evening to plan for it

But I know

When the option comes

l'll sit watching late night weather reports

 

The minutes climb

Underneath ever awake morning TV presenters

While I put a box of cornflakes in the fridge

 

2 minutes til pick up time

I lurk by the door

Shoulder blades against the wall

Hood over my eyes

Tricking my brain that this counts as sleep

And wait for the roar of the motor

Drowning out the quiet

And the 'chip cherp' of the early birds

 

My Ford chariot comes

I take my fast food stained seat

Start my journey towards work

 

All along the way

I watch

Seeing who would be up at this time

Wondering why I'm doing the same

Nothing to do for an hour and more

So I just look

And think

About what the view gives me

 

However early I leave

These empty streets are always busy

Makers and breakers alongside the movers and shakers

Catching the dawn closer to work each day

I see them scurrying in

To a place they won't come out of for hours

But

I'll see them again

Soon enough

Exiting from beneath

Like magic!

Barging passed people who are holding up their day

 

Old facades built around new builds

I know which ones I prefer

Nothing est. after 1935 catches my eye

Rows and rows of Georgian houses

Hundreds and thousands of fuel stained yellow and nearly black bricks

It's a sight I can look at over and over again

It's a symbol for me

 

Dirty grey paint

Peels off like bark on a dead tree from the top of a forgotten public house

Now turned bike shop/cafe

Better that than another Tesco Express!

Cyclists on a revolution

Whizzing past like they're in La Tour De London

Hard to ignore in their illuminuse yellow

With

Mud licked calf's

Red puffing faces

Tight black gloves

Dirty greasy chains

20,000-25,000 single speeders

35,000-40,000 ten gearers

And the Boris bike

Recieving the wooden spoon!

 

Everyday

I see the same things

But they never grow old to me

Never wrinkle

Or start huffing everytime they bend down

They invent themselves

Start new trends

And casue controversy

All my life

More or less

I've done this journey

But never grown tired of what I see

Out this window

Changing

But always the same

 

A book title stands out to me

'Wherever you go, there you are'

Yes.

That's true.

Pinocchios nose wouldnt grow any bigger if he said that.

It's too much to think about at this hour

Not enough minutes have passed to figure it out

Everything's a bit more black and white when you've contracted lack of sleep

A bit more simplified when you're ten fingered tools are cut and dusted with work

I carry on trying to trick my brain

Hood down

For a cherished minute or so

 

The dark is staying longer each morning

Tower 42 standing out less proud minute by minute

I crank my head at least twenty times a day

All because I want a second look at something I've seen 20 times before

The brake lights are getting redder

And redder

The girls getting less attractive and the men more puffed up (The Wintersmith is on his way)

 

I know these tube stations

Stop by stop

I know the smell

It would conjure up memories I couldn't visualise

If I was homing in with everyone else

And got hit by that wave of hot air pushed out by an oncoming cargo carrier

But I'm on 4 wheels

Following the Northern line

I've rode it too many times in dark tunnels

But up here is where it's best

In morning madness

 

Shop shutters down which I've only ever seen up

I look at the same piece of graffiti I saw yesterday

As I've seen on the inside of train carriages along tracks from South to Central

Scratched in bus stop windows

'I know that guy

Heard stories about him

Been a scum bag on the streets for years'

But now

Has an exhibition in a gentrified neighbourhood

Being viewed by the same people who would say his art leaves a sour taste on their streets

Drives their property prices down

Which will push them out

To the suburbs!

 

The undead line up waiting to board a bus that never seems to come

'Are they coming or going

Why does anyone work so far from home?'

We're already 8 miles gone and not even there

Only someone in 'The Smoke' would think that's a long way

And that the time it took was short

Stop start

Stop start

Trying to see green all the way

 

You can feel when the cities coming

Just beyond the moving shadows cast by a rattily bridge and cross country trains

And here we are

Over open water

Over the dirty old river

Hundreds march over London Bridge

One line

One formation

One purpose

Does anyone know what it is?

 

Then we pull in

The motor shuts up

Journey over

There's no birds singing here

Only the orchestra of sirens far away

Conducted by a manic city

That do get louder

Then fade out

 

Hours of work ahead

Before going home not to sleep

The journey back to look forward too

Seeing things I've seen and seen....