A finely crafted lot of letters nailed into its door, the room, so full in retrospect, slept – spacious; silent.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.
The grain is mismatched ‘cross the breaks.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
Trooping past: a generation.
The wind-waves ferry only onward th’scents of wawtry wood and th’smells of rainswept stone.