The sky hangs low, grey and heavy with rain, the sharp-edged concrete buildings dull in the dim light.
In this rundown area the streets are cracked and broken, even the scrawls of graffiti lend no colour to the place, smothered in grime as it is.
The people, few as they are, walk with heads down, scurrying to their houses dreading rain or confrontation.
And the rain begins.
The hooded lads speed off on their bikes to drier places, even they are wary of natures hand.
The rain becomes a deluge and begins to wash away the filth that encrusts the street, it filters between the cracks and life stirs.
The rain passes, the weather warms, days go by and the small seed of life cracks and reaches toward the light, from the grime it gathers strength to rise and by chance it is overlooked by heavy feet and wheels.
More rain comes, the sun shines, and over time the plant grows into a beautiful yellow flower, shining like the sun it stretches towards.
A small child, following his ball out of the rocky front garden, spots the flower and a huge smile spreads across his face as he lovingly wrenches it from its home and runs inside, proudly presenting a piece of sunshine to his mother.
Her tender kiss thanks him and her smile echoes his as she promises to put it in water. He returns to his game, his duty done, dusted and forgotten, and the dandelion, knocked behind the sofa and eventually withered, is swept into the garden becoming filth itself.