Afternoon

Drops of rain on the panes of glass. I must have slept through it. I don't remember it raining.
The sky is flat and heavy, a grey tone, fluid and pregnant. The angles of the Saturday houses are still and watchful, strange geometries protecting their rooms. Wombs full of sleep and the need for lamps to be switched on.
The branches of a tree, caught in one of those back gardens, dances in the breeze, a double-glazing silence shimmy. The leaves are a fresh green, and the shadows under the leaves are a pool-deep black. The small tree is the only thing I can see out there that could not be measured with the straight edge of a ruler.
In it's silent dance lie all the rhythms of these lost afternoons. All these luxurious bed-bound hours spent flipping through Saturday papers or half-sleep, dreaming half-dreams of things forgotten when woken. I would like to sleep on a bench under the boughs, feel the rain on my skin, the sticky taste of spring days catching in my throat.