Blown away on water the colour of warm places, feeling the undertow, the pull of the tides lifting us out to sea, we live on dreams on cold winter days.
On the solstice, close to either pole there is comfort in this.
Heard all over those Cycladic islands, they are in cages hung out to air on high walls like so much laundry. And like so much laundry they are returned to the house when the sun sets.
Sweetly singing little yellow fluff balls -- joyous creatures thrilling to the day --
a day of streaming light, blue sky, blue sea, blue frames on doors and windows.