Intimations of summer

Under the Couverts the racks of cards have been trundled out into the sun, the Marin blows briskly through the wooden pillars and down the narrow side streets to the Place.
There is a hush though, a respectful silence. The main cafe is closed, the tables empty, the chairs stacked and chained. A notice on the door announces the death of the Patron, details of tomorrow's funeral in curly cursive.