After the sunset

The commuter train pulls out of Waterloo station and begins chasing the fleeting sun westward. Dirty pink light shines dully through the windows of tall deserted buildings, hinting at the flamboyant show behind.

Then, Victoria Tower's turrets rise to the north, dark lacework on a coral relief, exotic and unfamiliar. Infuriating housing and office blocks do as their name suggests, while slivers of light flicker intermittently between them.

A huge banner proclaims The Big Issue, but before there is time to ponder the matter, fleets of red vans appear, stationary and toylike, waiting for their cargo of wrapped words. Still the evening's fiery display scampers behind and along, playing hide and seek with the train.

The sun is playful this evening, fighting off the blurring clouds advancing from the East; like Spring outrunning the Winter frost, converting white and blue to cherry, peach and violet blush.

Smaller stations lie ignored as the train picks up speed, rising to the sun's challenge (see if you can beat me, catch me if you can) and the reward is a beautiful vignette of blended orange, pink and grey - the city sunset behind Battersea Power Station.

But at the destination arrives the sad realisation that the sun has, once again, outrun the lives of men.

Another day is gone.

A pinkish warmth still tinges west-facing walls and windows.

The sky is a pale watered grey, as if purified by the incandescent flames of the passing sun.

A street light blinks on.