Light Comes to the High Street

by Robert Nisbet

Half past eight. Last night we felt the
lingering of an Irish gale, the rasping of
late leaf, by steps and alleyways.
There’s pub detritus certainly, but
Chloe, office junior, and Wayne, the
bookie’s clerk, drift, grinning, with the
leaves, to work. Both clubbed last night,
both separately, in cars elsewhere,
removed clothing, tasted a joyful
newness. The staffs of Furnishings and
The Outdoor Shop banter, scrap out
allegiances. Harriet sets up her mainline
bookseller’s, listens to the rustle, the chat.
The boys have been round, the road sweeper,
the paper deliveries, and, as the shuffling feet
scratch out their measures on the day to come,
something in Harriet’s imagination
bottles the alchemy
of people and purpose and day.