windy sound, sound of wind in the roof tiles, the monk and the nun tiles. Mediterranean tiles, almost half-tubes, interlocking laying technology laterally, overlapping at the top.
A heavy roof.
Take off the therapeutic mask, it has pressed on the sunburnt face all night.
The weather is colder today, it is late, it is eight. In the morning, get up to make a morning coffe, hot water and instant.
And brush the teeth and comb the hair, pour out the hot water on the instant, ready made coffee and go tho the balcony.
Black and white flash of a magpie passing, hurtling in the strong breeze, in the low angled light from the sun that rose not so long ago. A silent monday, but for the roar of the wind, the wind carrying the noise of the traffic away. Away, unheard.
A plastic waste bag rises above the bushes, inflated by the wind, caried by the wind, tossing and turning in the breezes, climbing to a good height , like some aerial jellyfish, and then down into the thorny bushes, invisible again, maybe impaled there, maybe to remain there untill a it is found by those that clean the thorny wastes of verdure.
The cats are prowling in the bushes, and back into the gardens before them, back to their homes with their human feeders. They prowl, mind their territories, attend their business. They may be the reason for the lack of small birds in the area, maybe there is another reason. Ask an ornithologist. Some time.
There are flying, swooping, flapping in the wind, hunting their prey.
This is the last day on the Croatian balcony in the morning, the still sleeping son and the sleeping wife in the holiday flat behind.
A heavy roof.
Take off the therapeutic mask, it has pressed on the sunburnt face all night.
The weather is colder today, it is late, it is eight. In the morning, get up to make a morning coffe, hot water and instant.
And brush the teeth and comb the hair, pour out the hot water on the instant, ready made coffee and go tho the balcony.
Black and white flash of a magpie passing, hurtling in the strong breeze, in the low angled light from the sun that rose not so long ago. A silent monday, but for the roar of the wind, the wind carrying the noise of the traffic away. Away, unheard.
A plastic waste bag rises above the bushes, inflated by the wind, caried by the wind, tossing and turning in the breezes, climbing to a good height , like some aerial jellyfish, and then down into the thorny bushes, invisible again, maybe impaled there, maybe to remain there untill a it is found by those that clean the thorny wastes of verdure.
The cats are prowling in the bushes, and back into the gardens before them, back to their homes with their human feeders. They prowl, mind their territories, attend their business. They may be the reason for the lack of small birds in the area, maybe there is another reason. Ask an ornithologist. Some time.
There are flying, swooping, flapping in the wind, hunting their prey.
This is the last day on the Croatian balcony in the morning, the still sleeping son and the sleeping wife in the holiday flat behind.
No comments:
Post a Comment