The Shadows you Rest in

A creaky day.
The light in my room has that muted post-rain quality, a daydreamy feel that makes me think of tree-lined roadside verges, narrow strips of squat and thick-leafed English trees that never seem to have a name. The day feels like resting in these shadows, watching the white sky through the branches, and the shadows you rest in full of sleep and last night's half remembered dreams.
Venturing to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, the noise of the bunting that is strung across the Mews startles me. The triangular shaped flags - the Union jack plastic - flutters like wings. A sudden memory - dating back to Malta - of a butterfly caught in melting tarmac, trying to escape. The desperate flutter of too fragile wings. The wind does not seem that strong, but the fluttering bunting has a maddened quality to it.
The day has a pleasing, abandoned quality to it, an old-fashioned country where everything is closed, like Sundays in the 1980s.