Cobblestones remember
the weight of centuries-
boots,hooves,bare feet
all pressing stories
into the cracks.

Smoke curls from chimneys
like the ghosts of industry,
and the fog-
thick,yellow,and watching-
drifts between gas lamps
that flicker like tired eyes.

A street performer hums
beside the worn brick wall,
his tune older than he knows,
echoing off windows
that no longer open.

Somewhere, a clock
strikes the hour
but time feels brittle here-
as if it might snap
under the hush
of too many memories.

A beggar with a paper crown
nods to a carriage that never comes.
Children chase echoes
through alleys that have no end.

And still,the Thames moves on-
slow,patient,
unmoved by the footsteps
that vanish into its mist.