Green roseSpring. But still, a piercing chill in the air.
Past Queen’s Park with its dark trees I walked. On the other street, the lamppost stood tall and sooty in front of Robert Louis Stevenson’s flat. Lamplight froze on the cobblestones. The arctic wind gusted.
Down I walked. The shops had all been closed promptly at five P.M. It was six hours since. Now yuppies in their Volvos drove past, their dates wearing red, on their way to the cafés. Far ahead, at street’s end, the spires were black points against the sky.
Green Rose, said the neon atop the doorway. The green petals were luminous in the night.
“Evening, son,” said the fat bouncer, his woollens beginning to pill, the lint ravelling.
“Hi,” I said. I was sure he didn’t recognize me, although the last time I dropped by was just
