*
Late on in the evening – and a man walking somewhere, wrapped in his own world, humming a tune. The way that he moved, you could tell what he was like as a little boy. A big boy now with his puffer jacket and trainers.
* *
Coming back from the pub on a clear cold night in November and the sky is a canopy of candles, a cathedral with it’s roof arcing to infinity.
* * *
I am awake and from across the houses I hear a neighbour’s voice. He is shouting into the dark, something indecipherable, yapping at the night like a dog.
MW Bewick 