Sunday morning and through the bathroom window I can hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, whistling over the overflow pipes. I can hear a Wood Pigeon wing beats, the clap as it swoops from one tree to another. I can hear a Chaffinch too. I can hear a neighbour’s youngest daughter shout to her mother and her calling back, their voices ricocheting off the houses behind ours. Sounds both ordinary and fascinating, comforting and engaging.
Through the bathroom window
peter wyeth 