The smell bleeds like paint in water,

smudges from the ground into the air,

into lungs.

The lightened colours sharpen the lines of the drawing

so the city can be seen again,

its dull and dreary edges smoothed away.

London has been refined, like laundered clothes,

the residue of dry days rinsed and spun

so it would look new.

But its fabric is still thinned from overuse,

evidence of old washes on worn stone.

The air is rich and alive the way cities have no right to be,

in their tombstone walls, their skeleton streets –

because it moves now,

it pulses and sighs with scent,

like the buildings themselves have exhaled.