on a quiet Thursday afternoon,

the half-day closing afternoon, on a Thursday:

the shops, like tall walls of solemnity

with breezing papers

as in old western canyons,

a tumbleweed of desertion.

Except the newsagents

always open,

for a quarter of Tom Thumb Drops,

Fudge Coconut Ice,

a Sherbet Dib-Dab,

whatever sixpence can buy.

A double-decker churns to life,

belching sickly smoke,

a movement elsewhere

as the conductor's bell

sends it on its route to Ilford.

Then, downstairs

Pebble Mill at One now ended,

Mum sups the last of her tea

and entering the kitchen,

she scatters the flour

to roll the pastry

to make Dad's pie.

It's warm today, hot.

The sun sending everything

into a post prandial slumber.

The world outside has stopped.

Later, roads as slow as a river

will meander into evening;

when the clattering Underground

will bring home workers from the City,

home to the hive,

with tales of rush and drive,

to awaken these half-day closing homes

of quiet domesticity.