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the whole town was built
for walking around in,
with leaves in drifts
like the skin of dead animals
and pretty girls
dressed in dresses
turning their heads
at traffic lights.
they make beer all over here
and everything smells
like the steps of fermentation;
alcohol
and slowly roasted oats.
the air is
crisp as biscuits.
wherever you look
you get reminded of ironwork
and old stories
and grey stone frying white in the sun.
I sit against a cafe window
and finish a cigarette with a relish.
the buildings filter light
like strains of tea
and the castle casts shadows
you can practically touch.
evening comes closer
up north.