The storm breaks over our London Town. The ground is sodden with driving sleet. The streets are emptied, grey, forlorn. But in our terraced houses small, we sit and huddle, and we dream. Of music, songs, of paintings yet to come, of friendships that are lent as life is lent to us all, to share in Hope as others before us would have shared in mead: warming us against the impending winter night.
"Yet dawn is ever the hope of men".
And so shall it always be.
