Friday, August 31, 2007

old, grass, bus

A friend of Heidi's comes over for a meal. After several glasses of wine, she asks me when I was born. "1933", I say. "You're very old," she says.

The smell of cut grass is much quoted as a favourite thing. It is no less attractive for that, in the Grove, this afternoon, under an overcast sky.

An empty, red double-decker bus stands at the bus stop its forward door open, the driver's seat empty. Next to the door, printed in white letters is its name "Louise".


Lucy said...


tristan said...

young, as sages go ...