I have opened the French windows.
(perhaps the French call them fenetres anglaises? with a circumflex)
At last I can breath.
Outside the gulls are excited, quiet now - perhaps they've gone down to check out the sea. Now I can breathe, perhaps I will fall asleep again, dream of swoopy gull-flying over to France,
The land where the windows come from.
Better close them first, though,
The act of closure, the stuffyness, will wake me up.
Still.
