Frequent thick clouds puff out the sun. The wind is brisk. But I am wearing a cardigan, being accustomed to a temperate climate. With a duvet and a rag rug, the old couch substitute is a passable sun bed. Down the lawn, daisy heads shake, as though I have just told them a very funny anecdote. Dark washing on the line billows: vampiric, cloak-like. Columbine florets in ballerina whirls.
'There is little in this world that stays still,' the wind says.
The house door is open and it sweeps in, looking for things to blow through.
My belly is full of good lunch.
My eyes are full of wonder.
Sometimes when I was thus occupied, as a daydreaming child, my father would be saying something and, vaguely aware of words, I would turn to look at him.
'In one ear and out the other,' he said, often amused, often annoyed.
So I tilt my head now and let the wind blow, in through one ear, and out the other.