Tim Meacham

There was no sound from the adjoining room, save the breathing of the house. Small holes had been drilled in the wall near the ceiling –light was channelled through acrylic rods allowing an exchange of light between the silent rooms 

Now, day after day, light turned, like a flower reflected in water, its sharp image on the wall opposite. Only the shadows of the trees, flourishing in the wind, made obeisance on the wall, and for a moment darkened the pool in which light reflected itself; or birds, flying, made a soft spot flutter slowly across the bedroom floor
To the Lighthouse