Close Your Eyes...

The old room has that wonderful, exquisite warmth that only occurs when a warm autumn or spring sun has been shining in through a window all afternoon until the floorboards and the walls, every book, every pillow, every piece of furniture and every particle of dust that floats through the air is glowing with the warmth. The smell of oiled and polished wood chairs and tables, of old hard-cover books with faded yellowing pages, of knitted wool scarves and patchwork cushions and blankets, of an old leather armchair sitting in the corner and of pottery vases full of wilted flowers from the garden. The sooty smell of unburnt logs in the open fire place and the cool earthy smell of the old red bricks that it was built from. From over the years comes the smell of numerous dead mice in the walls. And from above comes the faint and almost unexplainable smell of the plaster in the ceiling and multitude of different scents that have drifted up and become trapped in the patterns of the cornices among the the many spiderwebs. The smell of detergent and soap from clothing and cleaning and even the strange smell of baby-sick add to the tapestry of smells. The unique scent of every person who had visited this room lingered along with the different perfumes and soaps they wore. An orange and black butteryfly fluttered in the window and crazily went from place to place in the room offering it's own touch to the festival of scents and smells. The sun moves and the shadows change and we can see the different people who have come and gone from this room now as shadows and ghosts. In the corner on the leather armchair sits an old man, his eyes are shut but his silent lips move -perhaps prayer has a scent of its own? A lady leans out the window gazing into the distance, a tear escapes her eye and falls down her white cheek. We can't see anyone through the window, perhaps she waits for her beloved to return from war? Big, strong, sweaty builders come and go working on different parts of the room. Kneeling down we see a boy fearfully hiding under the bed, from an angry parent or maybe an unknown  monster lurking in the corners of the room? He slides back into the dark out of sight. The table is set and the smell of hot tea and scones, blackberry jam and cream fills the room. We pause and listen as someone practices flute, the soft clear notes bounce around the room. On the bed sit two people reading poetry to one another -happiness is a field of different scents and they linger and float around the room like bubbles. Our faces reflect on the bubbles and we've just woven more colours of our own into the tapestry. We wonder at the magic of breathing and open our eyes...