Washing billows in ordered rows , throwing scattered shadows across the slow breathing bodies of sleeping cats lying torpid in the warmth of the sun. The sweet scent of jasmine perfumes a delicate breeze to freshen languid limbs as we sit in companionable silence, noses buried in books.
Lazy Sunday morning; brunch on the patio, time slowed ........only this is but a facade of normality; we are merely visitors in our own home, playing at everyday family life.
The sting of fresh paint and symmetry of newly hung pictures belies the turmoil of packing and unpacking, as we gather what we need in folded piles and disappear off into the night to while away the moonlit hours in other people's houses, other beds.
With increasing frustration we mark the tally of time, 63 days; yet still the clock ticks on in endlessly mounting minutes weighing heavy from the effort of this daily grind.
Taps stand dry, switches powerless, and pipe work depleted. Only the silence of broken promises remains.....no starting point, no end in sight.......