Commuterland

The brittle crack of frost on pane followed the rain, as winter bit and lit the edge of leaf and hedge with quicksilver white. As the night supercooled and pooled the lamplight with halos effervescent, like incandescent lollipops, atop streetlights of grey, receding lines. And mist thickened to fog whilst work weary folk slog through commuter throng on the long journey through suburbia's blur to bedsit or flat, or house somewhere. Shoulders bent against the eve, they weave their weary way at end of day. Bleeding out the city and pretty girls habituate bars or spill into cars and text momma's to expect them late. Yet others wait at bus stop and underground, where rumbling sound heralds their arrival, all vying for survival in this great melting pot of humanity, their sanity questioned, their reasoning profound in their undying quest for the British pound.