Ceiling to floor
French windows. Just past tea time, twilight. Facing me, the dockyard, a couple
of schooners anchored in with their morning’s catch of fish, fisherman winding
up for the day. Sea gulls hovering. To my right, the monastery, monks returning
to their rooms after the evening prayer, the wide open gray courtyard, spotted
with the orange robes. A beautiful sunset on the horizon. The silhouette of the
monastery’s turrets against the orange-red sky. To my left, the slave market,
after the day’s business, slaves being returned to their cells while on one
side there’s a commotion caused by the disagreement over a sale. Passersby not
giving it a second look, used to such occurrences every day. The prison walls
behind me, guards on their watchtowers with their rifles, monitoring the prisoners
as they languidly walk back into the building for lockdown after their evening
on the yard.
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As usual, I was wide awake at midnight and decided to see if they have something interesting on TV (which unfortunately has only 4 channels ... -
Eversince I woke up this morning, I've been itching to write this post!! There is this song that I'd once recorded from the FM, henc...
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If I sleep, I either sleep like Rip Van Winkle Or I don't If I sing, I either sing like a nightingale Or I don't If I paint, ...
1 comment:
That is a nice canvas ! could envisage that place in my head! i see a pattern in your writing, a staccato version of writing. Its brilliant tho, not necessarily having to connect all the dots, but leaving it to a discerning reader...
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