In the cold Winter Sun

Uniform, white-washed matchbox-houses shine

Like giant cubes of sugar

Arranged at regular intervals

Dotted in a straight line

Like sheets of perforated paper  

Separating the dandelion-speckled playing-fields

From manicured rows of residential streets

Built in the shadow of the abandoned Bata shoe-factory

Whose looming presence alludes to a once renowned industrial prowess

Now lifeless, a rusty-edged relic decaying silently

As swaying bulrushes whisper quietly

And water ripples in sunlight sparkles

Where the sparrow’s chattering song

Competes with the drone of airplane engines

Scraping across cobalt skies, leaving white cuts

That graze the tops of pylons and telegraph poles

Dominating the leafless trees, standing like minions

Listening, to an endless symphony

Of tyres hissing on asphalt

And cracked uneven concrete.

~✩~