At The Shop

I hear the endless drizzle of the rain
And through the droplets on my window pane
Beneath the dark, foreboding, stormy sky
The citizens of Streatham Hill trudge by.

No cheerful talk nor laughter can be heard
No humming bees, or twittering of birds
The warm and vibrant sounds of health and life
Are gone - replaced by misery and strife.

These ragamuffin puppets flicker past
Like fleeting spectres from a dreary past
Like windswept autumn leaves they tumble on-
A brief, uncertain vision - then they're gone.

Engulfed by veils of misty driving rain
They stagger blindly on in abject pain
Too blind to see our colourful display
And that is why we've had no trade today.