the bells of seven, slept badly. Why can there be no simple deep sleep.
Hear a mobile phone somewhere makeing sounds saying it´s calendar has a date to remind the owner of.
Take the mask off, seven o´clock bells sounding.
Too da loo.
Alone in the flat, there is no-one awake. Late night television has taken it´s toll, and the son is sleeping the long sleep of youth.
In the big room listen to the street noises. Chatter, a group of women, going by the voices. Peer out of the window and see that it is a group of women, going to work, going to do their jobs.
There is the sound of a street cleaning machine, brushing, washing and sucking up the weekend´s dust on this grey cool monday morning in the middle of August. It will be back later, to cleanse the othe side of the street.
The son gets up, and adjusts his mobile ´phone. Comes across to the table, bids his father good morning, gives him a hug. Those days will pass, there will be times for proper handshakes sometime later.
The street noises are now louder, the clatter of doors, the rush and rumble of tyres on the cobbled streets, gradually merging now, later on it will be a constant roar.
There is the sound of some computer game from the sons room, he should make up his room before playing. But, no matter. He refreshed his latin words yesterday, there are many of them. He should know them all, and that is hard for a twelve year old when there are so many other items of interest about.
There is the sound of a diesel, then silence.
look out again, the workers who were digging up the street at the end of the road last week are now removing their barriers. They will set them up elsewhere to dig up other streets.
But that is why it is so quiet. The big digging machines are silent.
More women pass by on the street, gasping out early morning news and greetings to each other.
The house opposite is of a duller yellow today, the light of the sun filtered and softened by clouds.
Hear a mobile phone somewhere makeing sounds saying it´s calendar has a date to remind the owner of.
Take the mask off, seven o´clock bells sounding.
Too da loo.
Alone in the flat, there is no-one awake. Late night television has taken it´s toll, and the son is sleeping the long sleep of youth.
In the big room listen to the street noises. Chatter, a group of women, going by the voices. Peer out of the window and see that it is a group of women, going to work, going to do their jobs.
There is the sound of a street cleaning machine, brushing, washing and sucking up the weekend´s dust on this grey cool monday morning in the middle of August. It will be back later, to cleanse the othe side of the street.
The son gets up, and adjusts his mobile ´phone. Comes across to the table, bids his father good morning, gives him a hug. Those days will pass, there will be times for proper handshakes sometime later.
The street noises are now louder, the clatter of doors, the rush and rumble of tyres on the cobbled streets, gradually merging now, later on it will be a constant roar.
There is the sound of some computer game from the sons room, he should make up his room before playing. But, no matter. He refreshed his latin words yesterday, there are many of them. He should know them all, and that is hard for a twelve year old when there are so many other items of interest about.
There is the sound of a diesel, then silence.
look out again, the workers who were digging up the street at the end of the road last week are now removing their barriers. They will set them up elsewhere to dig up other streets.
But that is why it is so quiet. The big digging machines are silent.
More women pass by on the street, gasping out early morning news and greetings to each other.
The house opposite is of a duller yellow today, the light of the sun filtered and softened by clouds.
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