Each time I stand
jaded on the evening red corner
my heart leaps as Wordsworth's did;

            For the chimneys' yellow-brick fading downhill to one point perspective — gentle grey wisps/carbon spectres escaping slow-coal-living-room-smoulder;
            For the pulse of life and folksong through the wall of blue Skehans, the pleasure on my perked ear;
            For distant London's red star lights, dotting soft fog from cranes and glass skyscrapers — panoramic 'Cityscape #1' beauty;
            And for this permanent composition, a canvas of thought, sight, sounds and smells — the senses of my London.

"So be it when I shall grow old,
     Or let me die!"