Various shapes of sunlight, rainbows and octagons, hide behind the stale clothes crucified on the washing line. Crumpled brown, they hang lifeless and awkward, shading the plants that relish in the memories of smoke. The backyard. A place where ladybirds once found refuge and machine animals ploughed through the concrete. Fixtures and folds of buildings survey the skyline, a swallows playground. The sky that envelopes our homes and jobs and lovers with colours and planets and storms. So far away, it never leaves. It will never leave until we pollute it with spray cans and crisp packets and packaging from novelty action figures we bought on sale for unknown in laws. Satellites and balconies and street lamps, the back lane landmarks, they lie still. They lie vertical above us as back doors creak and neighbours go on living. Washing the same towels and shirts until they know more of the outside world than those existing in it. Shadows of leaves dance upon a stage of grey that imprisons bikes from a life of freedom and real sea air. The spirit of a staircase painted on a wall of rust, with pots of deadwood climbing to the steps indoors. Above the sweet whisper of traffic and the breath of a birds wing, sings the enchanting choir of a distant ice cream van. The hymn of a paraglider traces the silence of the sky, as the sequined spots of light immerse the glass of the shade.