it is saturday again and there is silence outside. Sunny early morning silence. The rumble of a few distant cars on the cobbles,
That is all.
The morning has been praised for its peace and beauty so many times, there is no need to praise it again.
But it is beautiful.
The bathroom, the nights accumulations discarded, flushed away down the municipal drain.
A drowsy return to the bedroom, a few moments more of sleep. Then swallow an antibiotic with the contents of a glass of water. Take the small notebook computer to the sitting room table, the big quiet room, untidy, somewhat dusty.
And write a few notes to remember the day by,
As the sun creeps down the yellow face of the house opposite, the preserved face of an eighteenth century house
It is time to make a cup of coffee for breakfast.
a small joy.
That is all.
The morning has been praised for its peace and beauty so many times, there is no need to praise it again.
But it is beautiful.
The bathroom, the nights accumulations discarded, flushed away down the municipal drain.
A drowsy return to the bedroom, a few moments more of sleep. Then swallow an antibiotic with the contents of a glass of water. Take the small notebook computer to the sitting room table, the big quiet room, untidy, somewhat dusty.
And write a few notes to remember the day by,
As the sun creeps down the yellow face of the house opposite, the preserved face of an eighteenth century house
It is time to make a cup of coffee for breakfast.
a small joy.
No comments:
Post a Comment