An eager crowd of pipes newly uprooted beside some roadworks.
Under the portico, outside the front door of a house in Mount Sion, sits a bare foot man.. He is leaning backwards, almost lying down. Between the pillars at the top of the steps, his toes protrude, white and inquisitive.
An elderly man in a purple shirt stands on his own in the middle of The Grove. He is playing a harmonica to himself. The sound barely reaches the path where I am standing. It drifts across to me in the wind, plaintive and lonely.