Black rubbish bags look like men:
fog conceals everything.
Children are having a sausage roll for breakfast, walking.
It's Sunday
Outside it's raining
and I'm listening to the perfect music to go:
some surfing mood music
with 70s riffs
walking in Leicestershire's streets
A steep steeple peeps out from flat department stores,
silent, naked, ancient,
it's trying not to sink
in a loud crowd of slogans and signs
and bricks with imperfections stand one on the other.
I love the suburbs:
they reveal the true side of a place
and its true colours
and I found myself dreaming,
between golden paper strips,
and sprigs
of thyme
To come back home it's time
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