exits, busy holly, bubbles

Behind the derelict cinema in Tunbridge Wells.

A dense, closely pruned holly tree is alive with unseen, twittering sparrows.

As I walk up the street called Mount Pleasant, I am greeted by clouds of bubbles, shining in the sun, wafted by the wind, into the road among the traffic and up into the remaining leaves of the plane trees, where they drift and perish. The source of the bubbles is a group of young people with little jars of liquid and wire rings, as intrigued by the magic of bubbles as I am.