Holiday

Amateur musicians join me unexpectedly so a kind of music I know nothing about – baroque, symphonic, chamber? – plays in notes flat with the smell of coffee and dry toast, and hardback books, in this

supposed to be quiet for a hangover room, which overlooks the grand-house’s grounds, across which flit nameless birds, thrushes maybe – blue-tits, swallows – like a display of emotion I shouldn’t think

I could put a name to it’s so joyful.

Joey Connolly-Wright