As the night air cools, the city slows and settles on its foundations, relaxing its garments and emptying its mind, easing down. The darkened lane meanders still, up the rise and over the hill, the incandescent globe marking the way through tattered papers and abandoned cars.
Naked branches creak as dew descends, the spring sap still far from flowing. A door slam echoes across the void, a dog barks a warning, a gruff voice responds.
Our weary worker wends her way through the deepening shadows, eschewing the frail bonhomie and heaving nightlife, returning to her stuffy home with its sink of stacked dishes, and her smalls pegged on twine across the dim courtyard. Back to her slippers and sherry, back to her aspidistra and cross-stitch, back to the land of the 7 o’clock News.
Back to her dinner for one on the rise, on the rise overlooking the beckoning town.
A member of the ABC Wednesday community.