Wednesday, 8 February 2012

February.8




As soon as the curtains are drawn back, light dives in, splashing the walls and the chest of drawers and the horrible carpet. Swirls of light push through the star shaped crystal that dangles by the window, and they burst themselves into three oval splats of rainbow.
I think of having a curtain of cut-glass baubles, filling the room up with bright gradients of colour, and promptly dismiss this thought, as it would need dusting.
In the fields, ice stripes decorate the grass and Dog fights the silvered reeds to retrieve her ball. Mrs Pheasant is disturbed and rises, kite shaped and complaining, over the copper beech. She sounds so annoyed, Dog seems to be laughing. When she runs past me I can feel the heat steaming off her fur. Dog does not know if she is the happiest dog in the world, she does not compare herself to others, unless they have food and her bowl is empty. 



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