The sun above this place is fleeting, uncertain of its immediate future. The houses of all who have made this place home are still and silent, extant but bereft of the merry presence of tenants. Wan light reveals sand-blasted placards and flags unravelling in snaps. An old notice of a wanted trade with a manuscript tumbles by, impaled on a dead thorn bush.
Old signs bend in the cold dry wind.
An attic door slams shut. Emboldened by this sight, I make my way forward and rap on the door. I step back. The houses of all who have made this place home are still and silent, extant but bereft of the merry presence of tenants. Wan light reveals sand-blasted placards and flags unravelling in snaps.