007. An Evening In Old London

Tall chimneys thrust up brick red necks their smoke black heads unblinking on the scene for the chimneys have no eyes no nose to smell out the waste A small boy crosses a dirty street his blackened face mixed with tears and sweat make a pattern of his features a sign of over work a sign of torture Along the street a river winds its way like a great sluggish dirty snake its low banks brown with mud like a rugby player after a match The boy finds a comforting shelter a small shack with a blanket the patterns faded with much use but it is comfort for the boy as tired he falls asleep his eyes closed his breathing quiet Not much moves in the streets as the red brick sentinels blind and deaf watch on unmoving as the night draws on