faurey
"Blumb, blump, blamp" go the children up the stairs. Wooden. Wherever did these people come from wonders mother. Father is asleep, and doesn't care. The squeaking metal of the candle lamps hang above doors all down the sharp-lit street.
Bank with grey beards around the keys and round. Eyes in candles glancing and nodding, efficient and diabolic. The shadiest sort of trust.
A ship with colours dragging, sad from the masts and wobbly rising heat. Doldrums like antlers on a hunting lodge door. We can only wait for wind.