There aren't enough trees in this neighbourhood, but at night, when the lights in the street reflect in the wet pavement after a summer's rain, it is beautiful.

And when the cars whisper, rush and swish past our street down Somerset, they can be confused with the sound of angels' wings rustling,

and the moving shadows of leaves on a patch of shining asphalt could be mistaken for their movements as they hover in their ministrations,

gently nudging us back from the edges of forgetfulness and despair.