There's a rushing wind through the streets of Govan, just like the day of Pentecost, and the light lifts and falls between brightness and shadow as clouds scud across the sky.
Up the road in Bellahouston Park, the priests are processing and the Catholic crowds are amassed to hear the address of Pope Benedict XVI and listen to the choirs and Susan Boyle sing.
Down in the heart of the tenements, it's as though Summer is snatching a last wild breath of life after a dreich week of autumnal weather.
Out in the back courts, a wee gang of children are playing at tig. They are racing up and over the middens, jumping and chasing, running as fast as they can to get away from whoever's het. I don't think any of them are Scottish children, by the look and sound of them.