I wheel my bike under the cathedral’s1 dark overhang. Seized by a rictus2 of the wind, the trees shed rain. Rain slides down 5 Wale Street’s sleek, steep fall: air is an ocean booming round high, bare walls. My hands freeze on the bike’s crossbar, 10 seek the sodden saddle, toy with the ice-cold bell: I am suddenly fugitive, homeless and cornered in a caprice3 of pressure and cloud. 15 Then they cough and I know I am not alone: far back, against the great, nailed doors, they huddle: troglodytes4 of night’s alcoves, 20 daytime’s shopping-malls, parking lots, sparse green lawns, municipal benches where lunchtime’s city workers, stripping down their food-packs, sit 25 in sober rows. 5 I fear to turn around, stiffen in expectation of the inevitable tugging at my sleeve, wonder if I have any coins, 30 wonder why they do not bicker, as they always do, cursing their mother’s wombs in tired robots’ tones, why only this 35 curious, chuckling, liquid sound drawing me around. She has the usual wrappings on stick-thin, brittle shins, patchy-purple, quietly rotting 40 methylated spirits6 skin: doekie7 of incongruous8 elegance crowns the scabrous, half-bald skull. Her man, grotesque as a gargoyle9 roused from stone, 45 cradles an infant on his lap, feeds it from a bottle with a teat, makes the chuckling, crooning sounds that turned me round, that hold me now spellbound. 50 ‘Good morning, sir,’ he says, and his voice is grave as a paterfamilias10 in his lounge. Only the odd man out, leaning against the harsh grey walls, 55 looks at me with carefully indifferent eyes, finding me, alien on his home ground wishing the clouds would break and I be gone, ringing my bike’s absurd, small bell.

I push my bike under the cathedral’s dark covering. The wind's grip makes the trees lose their rain. Rain flows down Wale Street’s smooth, steep slope: the air is like a loud ocean around tall, bare walls. My hands are cold on the bike’s crossbar, search for the wet seat, play with the freezing bell: I suddenly feel like a runaway, without a home, trapped in a whim of weather and clouds. Then I hear coughing and realize I am not alone: far back, against the large, nailed doors, they gather: cave-dwellers of night’s hiding places, daytime’s shopping centers, parking lots, sparse green lawns, public benches where city workers, during lunch, unpack their meals, sitting in neat rows. I am afraid to turn around, become tense expecting the usual pull at my sleeve, wonder if I have any money, wonder why they aren’t arguing, like they usually do, cursing their birth in tired, robotic voices, why only this strange, laughing, flowing sound makes me turn around. She wears the usual layers on thin, fragile legs, skin discolored and quietly decaying from drinking spirits: a headscarf of unexpected elegance sits on her rough, half-bald head. Her man, as grotesque as a stone gargoyle come to life, holds a baby on his lap, feeds it from a bottle with a nipple, makes the laughing, singing sounds that made me turn, that keep me captivated. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he says, and his voice is serious like a family head in his living room. Only the outsider, leaning against the hard grey walls, looks at me with carefully neutral eyes, seeing me as a stranger in his territory hoping the clouds would clear and I would leave, ringing my bike’s silly, small bell.