Hidden Sun

A dark and breezy morning. The sound of the sea drifts with the wind, a tide of railway lines and seagulls.
In the churchyard, a black crow leaps from tomb to tomb. The wind in the branches of the trees sound like the waves. I could fall asleep. On the other side of the fence, a train passes by, blurred windows showing ghosts of people.
I dream of cafes and secoind hand bookshops that smell of attics and old childhoods. By the time I get back home I am too warm again, though the sun is still hidden behind banks of restless cloud.
Yellowing light against my curtains, the laptop humming, and nearly midday, this house of bedsits is silent.