The light is a gift, it shakes down through the sycamore trees, catches the edges of leaves, illuminates a piece of patterned cloth tied to a branch. As it hits a sheet on a washing line, making the whole white square glow like a screen about to show a film, it also spills over me and my son, hanging the washing. It turns his fine, silky hair to copper, mine to gold. Makes the clothes dance on the line as they hang there, worn by the air, filled with readiness, shimmering with tomorrow’s shadows. The darkness is also a gift.