On old street br slumbering Sunday morning br Grey slate sky br Naked bony trees br A chorus of chripy birds br sing from above. br Clouds are made, br clouds are destroyed br Petrol puddles br give birth to rainbowed ripples br which fade from the eye br before the wind br awakens them once more. br On Old Street br curtains are slowly parted br sleepy light seeps through br Like dominos the houses br wake in turn br Lights flicker br deep rivers begin br to flow beneath me br warm fumes of heated bread br trace my posistion br And I am alone no more.