‘If You Hear a Baby Crying’
by Gay Lynch

Imagine, late one afternoon, you descend three steep, shade-filigreed staircases with your daughter to buy flowers and sandalwood chicken, the baby swaddled and cocooned in his silk sling, sleeping against her breast, to Hollywood Road, where you can find antique shops, galleries and arty coffee shops. Banyon trees with blackened trunks fan over the mossy steps, their roots insinuate fissures and sprawl over leafy stonewalls. You get caught up in the rush of people navigating the crowded pavements, finishing work or changing shift, picking up dinner from the American Groceries Supermarket or promenading in the cool evening air.