I look down upon a leaden lane,
a cold stone road, our urban thoroughfare.
Besieged worse yet by brackish towering buildings,
it seemed bereft of beauty, bar the blue
early summer’s cerulean embrace.
What a joy it was to stare to the skies,
as the lane
would bustle and brim
under such a lazulite gaze.
Yet as days drew on and the azure
stare glanced elsewhere, the warm air would stand still,
and sultry hues of rose
and faint amber began to trickle in, dressed only in
thin streaks of cloud.
The petals of a solitary cherry tree
flittered down the cooling concrete road, like
shards of nature’s shattered mirror, that aspired to
the heavenly tones above.
Yet little comparison could be drawn from the
passing blossoms fair,
to the sensuous skies afar, as they
danced through shades of splendour like
beauty’s dying breath, before
sullen black drapes caressed the
I could naught but blink and
pigment fell away like the banging of a gavel,
and I was met with an abyssal peer
whose pale eye casts its ivory glare
upon scenes so vast my mind
I saw my street seized by a dark tyrant’s
hand, shrivelling into
something miniscule, murky and
home soon warped by
some tenebrous veneer to where
it was home to me
But through the
a whimper of light sparked to life, and the lane
was flecked by flickering fluorescent beacons
like fireflies in the brush of the
great dark woods above.
The streetlights sputtered and spat
their mildew hues at the
walls of inky midnight,
cheap mockeries of the
sunlight that staved off such dark
for so long before.
Yet in those long fraught hours,
comfort sprang upon me and
my fears began to pale,
as I saw our manmade lights
falter and flail against that onslaught of absence,
knowing yet that
the sky’s shifting shades would usher in
radiant morning’s gold and coral come dawn,
were I to stand and watch
Now when I still look to that lowly lane,
that greying path, our urban thoroughfare,
knowing full well the frescoes above,
I feel my gaze drawn
Flecks of vivid beauty
that missed the canvas paint seemlier
scenes for me instead, as they
walk and talk, bustle and brim,
in hues of animate humanity itself,
a beautiful, knowable droplet in the
hues of the lane.