St Pancras lifts 
its red brick above the rails,
morning light slithering 
like a spine along the arches
as travellers eddy in loose currents
toward platforms breathing warm air.

A name rolls through the hall—
PANK‑rəs—
and in the drift of bodies
another sound shivers beside it,
PANK‑ree‑əs,
one note striking the tiles sharp and bright,
the other dragging low through the crowd,
their clash flickering in the rafters
before thinning into the station’s breath.

Kreato‑ waits near the ticket gates,
unhurried,
its consonants scraping 
faint lines through the air,
vowels looping after them in slow curls,
the whole shape clinging to the gate rail
like tangled ivy grown there overnight,
standing beside create
only because the letters
happen to share a coat.

Announcements crack overhead 
like distant signals,
footsteps scatter across the concourse,
and the paired syllables drift away—
one toward anatomy,
one toward trains—
until a warm scent rises
through the churn of steam,
tracing a departed train’s path,
sweet as a held breath.

A pan on the griddle—
each flap a fleeting platform,
batter rising like a paused announcement.

Pancakes

.