Thursday, 16 October 2008

Spool

Against dry flurries of golden leaves, winding string onto a spool becomes the lead rhythm, hooks him in until his feet start to tap a loose-kneed groove on the hollow heart of the bottom step. He listens to the head bound wisp of an old love song, and laughs as he remembers that odd thing someone once told him - "They don't whistle in Spain, you know."