Les Mêles du Spànne

It’s filled up. There was this total silence around. Except it’s like the breathing in and out sounds of the ground within this glasshouse. That doesn’t count. It’s not planes overhead or cars firing past. There’s both flight path and road nearby but somehow those sounds are a million miles removed. Nothing’s truer than the air that sits inside your ear. Then a breeze passes through. There’s a rustling of wires. A flutter of wings happens and you see a dart of darkness. 

We start to get lightheaded. Skipping lunch is a bad idea at the best of times. Turns out that working under glass, and working with the sun shining right through your eyes all morning long making the top of your head as hot as a bowl of steaming soup, well, it turns out that working all morning under glass and skipping lunch that, that is a very bad idea.

Lightheaded, we forget to listen properly and our hair is stood on end. We sit like a boy in school assembly. We can feel like we might dribble though we should be paying attention.

The birdsong all around is a chorus of love. And it fills up. We nap on the desk and in our mind’s eye the glasshouse is filling with blackbirds and even a border of crows. The sweet peas rise up to feed them. The chilli plants create somehow a soft bed for their spice-resistant wings. Then on aromatic winds they hover. 

It’s filled up with birds and their music. Somehow this is perfect, as we get the sleep we need. All the while we hum the tune Les Mêles du Spànne.