Empty

The city groans with unexpected lightness in the Summer months. Streets are quieter than usual and the parks empty of joggers in the morning, picnicking families in the afternoon. An unfamiliar population takes over, with matching backpacks and guides with clipboards flapping at their sides as their ranks pass by.

Trying to sell plants for charity in the park is a thankless task in the hot sun or drizzling rain. In an hour maybe six people pass by - tourists with no space for rosemary or mint in their picnic bags; grey, haunted faces walking alone, bereft of the crowds in which they would usually be lost; stressed parents, feeling the strain of the school holidays as their children crash into them on recumbent bicycles.

Who would have thought this season would be such a barren time? The city's population so unfamiliar, daily routines indiscernible in the chaos of lost feet on the pavement. Unnoticed by its inhabitants on beaches and in villas far away, Autumn's rustling steps can be heard in the distance. The brown edges of the trees, once signifying parched heat, grow slowly towards the centre. In the breaks in hot sunshine, the wind has a chilly edge. Neglected in this August month, I worry that the city will appear strangely changed to its returning inhabitants. But no, after a few short days surely,all will return to those instinctive rhythms that inspire the tunes of my writing?