there is a weathered doorway in a narrow lane

from it comes the warm scent of woodsmoke

a brown-aproned girl tends the smoldering fire

see how the smoke curls out from under the frayed edges of the old parasol

past the lamppost with its white and pale pink bulbs

to wrap its tendrils around the broad leaved tree

like the climbing vines' pale ghost

a water pipe twitters

and the red bulbul answers with its high pikawew

a handsome she-dog noses past me

her noble tail upcurled

questing for scraps among the gravel

while in the shadows (barely noticed)

the quiet cat lurks

flame turns into ember

dog turns in to nap

one last draught of salted coffee

before we go