The Violet Hour

‘Do you remember Soho when it used to be really dirty and filthy and there was all these underground basement drinking dives.’ Ask a man to his friend passing the latest contagion of construction works.

But it still is, if only just this moment on your lips.
A gap between buildings in Berwick Street holds no scent like it should along bottle green titles and foot falls.

This is ‘the violet hour’ so many have scrutinised and critiqued on their Eliot papers, forgetting to look up, witness the colour, the emptied alleys.


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