The slatted magnolia blind, pulled to one side every morning in painful expectation of what lies beyond, sits in it’s place, quite happily gathering the dust of days past, greying with age. It’s unkempt dullness a mirror of the monotonous air that hangs thick like a passive smokers dream, stagnant, bog like & stifling the slightest air of creativity. Past the mucky pains of standard NHS double glazing & their brown frames mocking the faded Summer, clings a delicate web, crystallised by misty droplets of “Swansea rain”. The kind that lingers in the air, hanging lifeless & still like an unlucky victim of a lynch mob, only leaving it’s mark on you as you brush past it. The diamond strands of sickly sticky silk waiting patiently for their passing prey, perfect in their creation & anchored intricately to the guttering & tiles of the slanted roof. The smallest breeze washes through it, like subtle waves caressing the golden sand of a lazy beach, a tease of a catch for the idle weaver lain just beyond any poor unfortunate’s view. Cold bricks, meant to be of warm colour, reflect the Autumnal hues consuming the October light. The nearly naked tree, that stood once so proudly green, now shivering it’s remaining foliage to the paling grass below. The hungry gull, eager for a quick fix & dancing the tango for it’s stomach, fools the earth worm into believing the rain is heavier than it is, slurping them up vigorously like some stereotypical starving Italian who hasn’t seen spaghetti for an age. Just beyond him, a seldom single squirrel beavers away, hiding his cache for the Winter. The whole scene overcast by the half light of an unwilling afternoon, denying it’s viewers any glimpse of pure sun, filtering it all through it’s soft blanket of sodden & heavily laden clouds, so fat it is a miracle they do not fall to the ground, enticed by gravity.