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Sometimes they whisper, as if some great discovery has come their way, some great thought has come to them in the night, creeping to them, softly, quietly, ever so softly on the night. Down the corridors of their dreams, into the sleep of the dark, into the deep dark quiet sleep of the night, where high and clear come thoughts of things and more things at the bottom of garden paths, which lead to nowhere, and soft light comes in the morning, when they do not want it to come, because they have found a place, and been to a place which is all their own. And the dawn colours come softly into their rooms, softly, quietly, as if the shadows are asleep. Softly, like the bush awakening in a distant gully, where the rocks start to warm up as the sun dares to touch them, as the first rays come to them, in that early day. Down the back lanes, softly now, creeping, teddy bear sleeping, softly now, you can hear the rattles of the early carts, men making noises, grunting, pullovers flapping in the wind, trees bending in the wind, as if they were trying to make up their minds whether to stay or go.
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“Good morning, Eliza.”
“Oh dear God, not you again!”
