First there is the hill, then the open fields and after that the vineyard.
There is a small hamlet and then the track.
The track is full of holes and the house is
at the end of the holes.
On one side the land falls away like an
ancient cliff and distant lights of other hamlets tell you that you are not
completely alone.
Not completely.
Inside, a man is playing the trumpet – you
do not know him but he seems to know you.
He plays well.
Jazz.
Soft and sensuous jazz.
The best kind really.
Lighting is low, candles flicker; people
are swaying to the vibe.
Outside, the moon watches.
It will be full tomorrow; tonight it covers
the fields and trees, valleys and folds in an almost clear ghostliness.
There is a track at the side of the house;
it leads down to a field where animals live.
The light is too ghostly to make out
anything other than their smell.
Donkeys maybe, horses probably, but it
might be goats – you can not say for certain.
Here the sounds from the house do not
carry.
A bird sings.
The nightingale.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment