Stars pepper the sky. A solitary lamppost reaches up towards them. It’s a doomed endeavour, for an incandescent bulb is weak, its filament will burn out, the electrons tire. But for now, in the early hours of this Tuesday morning, this lamppost’s light reaches. Up towards the sky.

The lamppost stands on an empty quay. The wind blows against the river, cold and dusty, and the water laps beneath. If anyone were here, they might see the city lights reflected in its ripples. But there is no one here, and the wind moves and the water laps and the light reaches and glistens. The vastness of the dark velvet sky, blurring into black, echoes out the emptiness. It is a lonely time, this two-three-four, but pregnant with possibility. For seeds need space to grow. For music needs silence to matter. For it’s time, not joy, at the heart of growth.

So, here, the in between time, in the space where no one goes, and the ever hopeful, expectant and disappointed lamppost. Here, this empty quay, in time, will watch the sun rise, the water glow pink and gold, and the people come, big and small.