An evening slowly set to laying blue across the city. I was walking all alone, and in the growing shade the sounds of traffic mingled with the bated hum that fell like vapor down from building’s tops where heaters swallowed air and belched exhaust. Memories of nights at home, of how the moonlight dampens noise as if the darker air is thicker, too, began to slip like threads within my mind–tenuous at first, but gaining favor as the light resigned to make the sharper lines of things a bit more soft. A man approached me on the sidewalk, asked if I’d a pound to spare.
Scattered planes of light began to blink into existence, conspicuous against the glassy shadows of the architecture framing them. The people inside twisted shut their blinds or slid their curtains closed, worried, maybe, that down here on the streets an eye might stray. Though I’m inclined to think it much the opposite: that dimming streets afforded not the taintless views that they’d inclined. A pound to spare.
Several thousand miles away my mother fed a large and aging dog who I love dearly. I phoned her in the evenings just to see how they’d been getting on, and usually she’d hold the phone for him so that his rapid breaths could crackle in the speaker. He didn’t understand me, but I’d plainly ask him how his day had been, what he’d done while I was gone and if, by chance, he’d cleaned the house. His breath would tell me no.
On the sidewalk there in London, early spring and verging stormy weather every instant, I held the coins inside my pockets so their heedless noise might break a bit less sharply in the muslin evening falling grey and free and futile. A song for every memory in dusky hours. Some of them are soft, some of them the blue is deep and some so pale they barely have a grain. And it was memory, the voice I’d heard implore me for some change. A simple memory to pass like so much doubt and walk away. And I suppose but for scenery they render all the same.