Croydon on a Sunday evening

The coffee shops are slowly emptying
Under skies as grey as the water with which
Tired shopgirls mop their laminate floors.
As the light fades and the cool breeze draws in,
The lichen-covered weathervane on top of the Ship
Swings north to point to darker times.
The lego skyline is gradually lost in the gloom.
There is no darkness like that which
Gathers in shop doorways
And pools around street corners,
Making every alley a gaping mouth,
Ever pedestrian a wierd, looming demon.
The lonely and plaintive refrains of inebriated wanderers
Curl through the air like cigarette smoke
Preceeding the slow march of night's parade
Down the expectant streets;
And though you cannot hear them,
The spiders are coming out to play.

Hopeful.