Close Your Eyes - Al Bowlly 1933
When all else seems lost and sleep will not come I find myself cocooned in the sounds of a time gone by. The lilting voice of Al Bowlly croons from some unseeable source deep inside the deco mansion and dies quietly in the crisp night air. French doors are wide open, the stars glinting wistfully in the distance. The sound of cicadas let summer not be forgotten. A woman is draped in beatiful emerald jewelled silk, that seems to flow off her ivory skin in rivers. Her jet black bobbed hair kisses the nape of her neck lightly as she reclines silkily upon a golden brown settee, draped there in blissful serenity. A small smile plays quietly across her claret lips, which part absentmindedly to sip at a lightly sweating gin and tonic. In the warm shadows cast by well placed lamp, a tall man, lean and ravishingly well dressed, slicked back obsidian hair glinting in the faint light, pours himself a generous whisky. The amber liquid rests gently in a crystal tumbler, settling firmly in the mans hand as he slides in deftly beside his companion. They sit for a moment, in the presence of so much beauty, no words interrupting the song still swirling around them. Heavy lidded eyes drift closed with the release of the dying notes into the night.
