Yesterday an ice-cream van drove by my bedroom window. It's signage was bright in the strong spring light, though the engine was rough and clattered in the quiet Saturday morning air.
As it disappeared down the road, the engine fading, I heard the music start up. I didn't know the tune, and it danced through the air, spinning and twirling, dipping in and out, behind hedges and cars and houses. It was at once heart breakingly beautiful and infinitely fragile.
So what'll it be? A 99, perhaps? A flake, rocket or lemonade lolly? Or the frozen tears of victorian maidens caught in a void of crumbled lace and wasted dreams? They've got it all.