Worms on the path after rain. One little one, prehensile head searching, stretching.

It is translucent, almost, body pink and peach and bruise coloured toward the tail. A band around its belt, quite orange. Nubbins on its belly. Worms have bellies?

Across a bridge and down a red brick walk I find myself at the centre of a court ringed round with houses. Houses linked elbow to elbow; all their eyes are windows focused inward toward me, the intruder at the centre.

Here a sleeping fountain flaunts its works.

A fine rain falls. Scent of water in the air, which is not the odour of wet earth. Pale blue electric scent: scratched metal, fork against teeth.