Bird's eye view

It's quiet in the morning air.

Peace reigns interrupted.

Birds have been up all night.

The sun rises up over Ye Olde London Town.

Waking their instinct to survive.

Muted pinks and purples make the scene romantic.

Only the brave and the conscientious see it from season to
season.

Only the sentimental capture it in their memory and hold it for all
time.

If the streets could talk, what a tale they would tell.

Progress and horse drawn carriages.

Oranges from Nell.

Trams, trolley carts, cars and buses too.

Tourists and tradesmen to name but a few.

Pickpockets, buskers and street entertainers.

Hustle and bustle.

Winkle pickers and trainers.

Mini skirts and maxi ones.

Punk and rock and roll.

Designer labels inside designer carriers.

Sleeping bags in corridors.

Posh resturants.

Hot dogs and sizzling onions.

A jagged skyline, changing with age, like lines on an old man's
face.

Foxes darting here and there watching, hiding, waiting.

But just before the madness starts.

The streets are silenced.

An intake of breath.

A second passes.

A veil is removed and reality comes into sharp focus.

A paradox.

A window of opportunity, a window of time.

When everything is peaceful and London is mine.