Читать книгу New Theatre - Susan Steudel - Страница 10

Night. Drier than bone, an hypnotic windmill.

Morning. Shears silver and heavy in the hands.

Noon. A grumble, a black currant.

Afternoon. Eleven years after the child is born.

Tea. The stain in the iris.

Evening. River ice clinking into water.

The hour. Catkins erupt silkily from buds.

Bath. One end of a skipping rope lowered into a birdhouse.