It's now the time of year when the stars begin to inherit the day.
The air is melancholy, the mountains shrouded, the sea in the bay whipped and the seagulls momentarily taken by sudden gusts in unintentional directions. Twilight is permanent, or so it seems.
Late into the nights, facelit by a screen on which words etch one by one, some favourite photographs in frames, an old mug with something hot to drink. And a little girl falls fast asleep, her tiny hands clasped, safe in her mother's embrace.
2 comments:
Vá hvað maður er orðin stór hef ekki séð hana lengi :P verð að fara að sjá hana og ykkur kv.Sigrún
þÚ ERT ALVEG YNDISLEG OG AFI SEGIR AÐ ÞIÐ SÉUÐ BEST ÞEGAR ÞIÐ SOFIÐ.KÆR KVEÐJA AMMA OG AFI.
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