window, closed, dripping

Behind the deserted cinema.

For at least a year, the shop in Mount Pleasant, which sells bed-linen, curtains, towels and the like, has had a closing-down sale. "Everything must go," a placard used to say, a note of the Apocalypse I used to think. Today the doors have closed. "Closed for good," says the placard.

On my way home, I cut across the Grove. There is a fine, soundless rain. I stop and listen. No one else is there. From the branches, where the misty rain has collected to form larger drops, the big drops fall noisily. The occasional leaf, heavy with moisture, floats down in an almost vertical direction