Untitled

A quick sketch.

The light bounced of the varnished oak, the ribbons and twists in the wood thick and fluent, abstract shapes of islands and blazing comets, of wrinkles and lines in maps stacked in garden sheds, probing like the limbs of daddy long legs flitting against cream walls and pale lampshades. Spring birds singing dogs barking talking crooning inflamed by the shrill cries of deft footed children told to steer clear of greenhouses and ponds, to keep the football away from the windows, of the neighbours fences. Their cries transcending the boundaries of these walls, these boxed off plots of land seemingly divided just so. All part of one soundtrack all part of the same fervour and excitement in the foreign feeling of glowing heat, the washing quietly on the line against the Chinese whispers of the motored pump in the pond as the coy carp do little but slowly sway like plump segments of bark.