What the light was like*

On a midsummer morning the rising sun clears the housetops and briefly shines into the back windows through the leaves of the huge (but diseased) chestnut tree in the garden.

The wind moves the leaves, and walls and doorways in the quiet house become the playground for a secret life.

Then the sun loses its angle of entry, the patches of sunlight disappear, and the rooms close in on themselves again.

I used the camera to search out the light and its reflections on shiny surfaces and in mirrors.

*The title of a collection of poetry by Amy Clampitt.