The tower is a man in pinstripe suit and bowler hat. An Irish man in hi-vis says that this view will be gone soon, and I feel guilty about the cupola I smudged, short changing the window panes, cutting corners and cornices.
A building wrapped in a white shroud clinging to its ribs then billowing out, bristling with scaffold poles and fabric folds.
Come round the corner and look straight into the belly of the beast. The child that will eclipse its stony mother stands stocky and still, steaming in its yellow cradle.
Down by the dandelions I take the floor.