Saturday Night, Club Night…
(Inspired by Peter Brook’s painting…)
Workfolk and lives languish cornered in a cul-de-sac, a dead end,
Labour mollified, tucked away into terraces
Hunched and angular, where even front doors are painted
Dully. Yet white daubs on the washing, the dog and the child’s shorts lend
A smidgen of hope for the future, reflected in the bright faces
Of the matures in hats, dressed for a night out, their convention untainted…
The spectral washing line seems to pull the community
Together into a close-knit unit perhaps, whilst a garment
Is revealed communally, like art in a gallery, hanging.
A secretive prying figure watches the couple from the security
Of a darkened doorway, as white-gloved, the woman smiles for a moment
And her chap smokes his pipe, proud in collar and tie, following…
Pete Ray…
24th January 2026…
The evening light upon the two central dwellings contrasts so well with the shaded homes at each side.
My mum once owned a similar coat…
And in role as JRR Tolkien, I would wear a hat and smoke a pipe at Sarehole Mill in Birmingham…
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