And it would make a fine bed, nestling in the cracked wall near the gate. A place to peep out at the world, safe above the high tide marks of a pavement that turns into torrent as every rain rivers down the hill.
Brighton has elms. Some 30 000. They line my street. Their seeds lie in soft drifts, cushion footsteps, swirl up at my face in playful storms, find a way into the heel of my shoe, drift down in endless slanting rain that colours the sky's breath, tie flags to the silver lines of every spider's web. Open the front door and the house welcomes them in, sucks up the dregs through a paper straw, satisfied.
And already, the day seems to have blown out of my hands.