Sunday morning

It is Sunday morning and there is the sun, an insistent intrusion into the quietest day of the week. Forcing its way, bleaching the ochre walls with pale winter light. Casting purple shadows behind the couch, lighting up the room.

You had hoped to spend the day reading on that sofa in the gentle winter gloom. The book is open, half-finished on the floor. You want to sit and read but you are mesmerised by the spun-gold of winter sunshine and you can’t do anything but watch and hope that it lasts the whole morning long.

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