A sunny day hadn’t been enough to dry the soil in the fields; the nimble heat of a mild Thursday little had managed against the mud in the lanes. No one had mowed the lawns and the weeds stood proudly as if they had been wheat. An isolated house in the hazy sunlight was no longer blocked by other constructions. They’d built other (houses) to hide quite a nice specimen of ancient dwelling, even though now weeds had taken over and surrounded the ruins, like a lost past come back alive. They put their luggage down. It banged through the rafters and the walls. There was no echo, though, as they uttered some words. Untimely birds broke the dawn outside with their singing – but it was almost noon – surely thinking, in their instinctive way, that the dust and dirt lifted by such a house cleaning would leave their throats dry the following morning.
PaperShots 