610. 16/8/16 (#602)
A rush of wind down an ancient street,
Catches the folds of my dress,
Music captured from times now lost,
Floats between the carved beams.
I can feel the cobbles through my sandals,
And the heat on my covered shoulders,
Filtered between squashed-together roofs
Of pretty houses unchanged but for restoration.
There is no such thing as rush here,
The fastest pace is but a stroll,
Here getting anywhere is not the point,
Instead your eyes do the walking.
And now they wander across the flower baskets,
And the art and clothes shops,
That spill out onto the streets,
Bringing life to a tranquil town.