Window

Someone has put more pink bows out. Now they follow the line of lamp posts all the way down to South Marine. The east wind this morning was catching at the ribbon tendrils and making them, flitter like jellyfish, in its gusts. The wind was chill. My fingers nipped at their extremities. I am tired. But I am ready to work. I need to make a start, it is the only way to deal with the fear. It’s a beautiful morning. The clouds, what there is of them, are almost stationery, hanging but building up their mountainous whiteness. A few people milled about. I watched as a group of four party-goers tried to get a key into the door of the Richmond Hotel. The big window of The Castle pub was still lit up at three am when I walked by. It’s a stunning window, like the one in that pub on St Martin’s Lane. Etched white with swirling post-Art Nouveau curlicues. It, both windows, speak of a yesteryear grandness when light was courtesy of candles and they flickered flames of yellow against walls of mirrors. Hang the washing, make coffee and work. Chop, chop.