Juddering down the line,
the city encroaches the horizon,
Filling the scenery field by garden,
Lane by road, brick by building,
and before you realise you are carried into its inner web
of looming towers and crowded streets.

The cab you take darts from the terminal,
spinning round a bout, and flings itself into the fray of
buses lumbering,
cyclists skirting hideous death by inches,
and fellow travellers in black bullets,
aimed at the chinks in the armour by skilful assassins.

Once the demonic power that grips the wheels
seeps deep down within you,
when you take note of the scenery,
bullets draining to the background,
the serenade flowing evenly through your mind;
once the plunge is over and your are part of the rise and ebb,
it becomes a wonder scarce dreamt of.

It slides and cries like a thing alive;
blooming, booming, its pulse,
so near its heart,
is a perfected rhythm,
infectious and familiar.
The flow of cells within
so precise and natural that
you and it are kin,
siblings,
of the same blood.

Once left this pulse it waits,
moving round and round,
for you to return,
and return you will;
for in all of us beats the same pulse
over the same heart
driving the same cells,
the same urban flow common world wide,
only here more natural,
unique,
less restricted as a cacophony of colours and a heady mix of sounds,
a true, maybe the true,
natural urban flow.