Nearer the tarpaulin.

Charing Cross Station is empty.

Gloriously void.

The colours in the great cavern are washed away by a hideous alliance of penetrating strip-lights and the impenetrable sheet of cloud that smothers England like tarpaulin.

The place feels unused. There aren’t any trains. No feet. London is subdued.

Then a person.

Right there.

Then gone, barely able to make a mark on the emptiness.

She marvels at it.

Walks the perimeter.

Past shops.

Past gaudy posters

Adverts that have nothing to offer her.

Cafes that are nominally open

but as empty as the station.

She looks up.

Through the brick

and the steel

and odd piping

she looks at the grey clouds.

Wants to be nearer them.

And so she flies.

Cooing on grey wings.


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