Little brush-strokes of yellow, green-yellow and orange hang from bare branches over the gleaming pavement. Windows palely-lit, street lamps warmer, headlights reflected in puddles, the handsome bulk of the pub, all windows blazing.
You only deduce shapes in this pontilliste night-scene. And only two are palpable: the full moon, brilliant among the black dominoes of chimneys, and a file of stuccoed porticos, dressed by the right in precise perspective. Random bangs and fiery glimpses in the sky emphasise the solid stillness of the street. This is London. And I am a Londoner. It moves me.
