I sit in the semi-darkness and listen to the sounds of people living - in gardens, courtyards, patios, by open windows. The warmth of the summer night mutes ordinary sounds. You hear: relaxed voices, gentle laughter, the occasional yap of a dog, cry of a child, voice of a tv news presenter; on some soundtrack, you detect, its source unexplained, the last post; overhead, an aeroplane; on the road a car passes, its tyres mysteriously hushed by the heat.
Late at night, I hear a wind get up, a prelude to a storm, and, through the bedroom window, open beneath the blind, which is not quite lowered, catch sight of winged seeds from the lime tree, floating past in the light from the street lamp, like snow flakes.
Just at the moment my favourite poem is Brise Marine ( Sea Breeze) by Mallarme. I can't get it out of my head.
The flesh is sad, alas! And I have read all the books.
To get away, far away! I sense the urge of drunken birds,
To swoop through unknown foam, and distant skies...