From my window of green

A Room With A View: Humanities Room 118 (Desk Number 5 - 26th Nov 2007)

I am writing from a room with a view. The window I peer through looks through a window of plane trees - orientalis and coral trees, over a hedge of night jasmin, where occasional feral cats conduct sorties of sorts for Senegal doves that peck and preen unaware. Beyond, the orange Terra-cotta tiled roof of the architecture building rests cloaked by sunlight. Between the branches I see the sky - bright blue darkening, turning to cobalt, darkening like the branches it looks between, branches clothed in green that move around me, heavily laden by their emerald understories becoming darker - moving into shadow. Here, and there, the last specks of golden light move upon their leafy arms like squirrels in their branches, never resting, always on the move. The leaves beneath now rest as solar sails that the branches have loosened, untethered from their work of tracking the sun through the day, now bending, hanging limp in preparation for the night. This sight, now so calm, this sight gives one to rest, slows the heart, although temporarily as a gust of wind upon the tree beyond sends her leaves careering. But well tied they flick and flex and return to their form - ever ready - for rest and movement. Deep in the branches yonder I see the green man staring my way, or fleetingly I see myself a reflection of what I'd like to be - entangled in green, at rest, yet free to move when the breeze blows in.