City in Winter

The lonely street once abundant in carnival colours lies breathless in the morning chill. The wind washes the detritus of leaves into the morbid, shadow filled back-alleys and ginnels. The relics of the summer holidays are discarded or kept in anticipation of next year. The wasps swash and swarm the sheer mountains of waste and refuse. Outside the pub a rabble of various bottles, maladroitly strewn the night before, roll around lazily in drunken circles.

The Cathedral's grounds shimmering yet bleak, are overlooked by the posse of death black crows, like an L.A. gang, surveying and protecting their turf. With their harsh caws and sharp claws, the crows patrol the winter garden. Along the city walls the few remaining colonies of moss, hardly carpets, merely samples, cast-offs from mother natures substantial wardrobe, remind us of the fruitful summer passed. Ants busily clamber into cracks in the jigsaw-like pavement, regardless of anything in their multiple "to and fro" paths.
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The wandering river trundles on, searching for new life to contain and nurture, perhaps to take. The mangled pieces of driftwood rise up and out of the swirling waters then sink down like a capsizing ship making its final groaning descent into the murky depths of the grieving waters. Under the arched bridge the newly woven starling's nest wavers precariously in the winter wind while red-breasted robins and energetic blue tits light up the dreary city skyline with their wonderful livery and chirping songs.

The constantly humming stream of cars flow steadily through the city centre, ...

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