Rain changes the feel of the City. Those hurrying seem more hurried. The concrete and glass colours of City life seem muted further still. The scents of the City are heightened by damp. The sounds of hustle and bustle are accompanied by drips, by gutters running with water, by feet tapping and splashing along the pavement. I too walk a little faster, as Emerson wiggles in the sling, protesting the rain drops that reach her small head.
Down an ally, a hidden bar is full of poets and admirers. Rich pickings for people watching. Velvet coats, leather pants, Fedora's at jaunty angles, screen printed T-shirts carefully chosen to offer insight into the wearers passions, bright coats, expanses of tattooed skin. Sheish Money croons; deep, gravelly and emotion filled. Twin sister's sit with friends, peppermint tea and cider. Emerson gives in to sleep. Then poets take the stage to read their writings and I'm reminded again that poetry is so much more than words on a page.
