I walked on Primrose. It was Dusk. On the hill that here

I walked on Primrose. It was Dusk. On the hill that here is called just — Hill. A steam engine hooted Out of sirens and set off downhill, scattering dogs out of mothballed Victorian villas, where news hung down from the terraces, that soon everything again would shut. Here they love to look at the houses in the dark — they seem, like those dreams — distant. They were built, so they say, in those Times, when London didn't know what a virus's wild Colic is. And glinting in the silence are their lights, like someone else's stingy tear for your never-accomplished feats. You walk in the night — Alone — and search for yourself and try to remember your friends' names, so as to reserve the dust-covered in the restaurant tables.