Flat light takes the edge off the world, diffused further by the condensation painted window.
A pigeon softly sings it’s simple tune, disturbing nothing. Lulling, a dawn lullaby. Numbing.
Waking from unexpected sleep, nothing seems quite there, not sharp or focussed. Reality hung over.
All the energy of the season lost, expended on surviving, even the air feels drawn and wasted.
People move with batteries fading fast. Slowing as they take forced steps in the normal. Curling against the grey, on streets that once sparkled but now are dimmed.
Memories coat the buildings twisted with the lights still hanging but extinguished. With the bags of bottles and paper waiting.
The colours change from primary to pastel. From the sharp and bright to the washed tones of fogged life labouring to rise and pierce the fading night.
Focus shifts, falling from the thrill of expectation and the tension of togetherness, to moving solitary feet, in turn, along damp monochrome paths.
The day after begins.
PICTURA POESIS 