Two and a half hours of sunlight remaining when you got home. A glorious day, balmy by the standards of Welsh spring. Like seals on rocks, people sunning their skin in the grassy spaces that line the Taff.
At No. 7 the sound of neighbours having dinner and chatting in their backyards. Barbecue aroma. The two ginger cats gone March-hare crazy: bolting in and out of the garden, hide-and-seek under the clothes horse and bike tarpaulin.
Does any of this matter? Not a bit. But it’s all you can think of to avoid the gnawing discomfort that followed you home from work: a sense that the recent project has been disowned by its commissioners.
But that too doesn’t matter. Not a bit.
Almost too clear
someone’s conversation drifts in
over the garden wall