Collecting

Hot sun and blossom on trees on street corners. People sit in gardens, kneel down to tend gardens, children cycle about their small domains, kick footballs, bounce on trampolines. Blue sky. Music from inside, washing hangs on lines. Tulips in a terraced garden up above the road, red and glowing. Daffodils still. Houses where no-one is ever in, blinds down, gates locked. The water from a washing machine overflows a drain, pours down the path, soapy. Children fetching parents from deep inside their houses to talk to me. Sleepy semi-dressed people who work nights. Many kinds of dressing gowns. Many kinds of doors, wooden and plastic, many kinds of doorbells, letterboxes, gates, front steps, house numbers. Pebble dash. Brick. Stone. Weed filled yards and lovingly tended gardens. Old toys, rubbish and dog shit on the threshold, bins in front of doors, washing hanging in front of doors, doors open, doors closed, people emerging to find me there, surprised. Dogs, barking, yapping, quiet, tied up, roaming, behind gates, on leads.