The weak-rayed sun drops over the terraced street
I see the cold beams from my basement ,
barred from street level footsteps, passing cars.
And as the pale clear light dwindles,
yellow lamp glow takes over, warms the cold room.
Foot steps tap in the flat above,
The washing machine sloshes and hums.
And I sit, passing Sunday hours.
And humdrum days too
as the clear cold light
ever-dims to darkness.