WHITTLE’S CROFT 6.17AM
The rain was bouncing off my hood, the tippy-tap noise being my only company in this small side street tucked away behind Ducie House. I saw no-one and no-one saw me. If I’d been more of an animal than my modern, city self I’d have gone to shelter on higher ground. The lemming leaves lay dead on the ground, except for two which remained like young lovers looking into the sunset on the last night of their holiday.
I found myself staring at the leaves. They seemed so defiant. The street, with its odd name, felt ancient and I wondered if others had stood here and gazed upwards, considering the passing seasons. I wandered down to Ducie Street whilst I coldly waited for the dawn to begin and, looking towards Paradise Walk, I began to talk to myself. Someone passed by, stooped against the pounding drops until they heard my aimless chatter, when they looked up, alarmed.
Feeling foolish I went my back to my camera, hidden under a black umbrella. Lights were turned on in the modern apartments beyond the Victorian walls and the sky gave up its darkness. I broadcast my shoot on Periscope, perhaps because I wanted the company. Someone from America said that they thought the leaves spoiled the picture.
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