Good evening,
Friend.
Settle into a position that feels comfortable.
And just allow your head.
To rest.
On the pillow.
I'm Mark and tonight I will accompany you on an evening walk.
Through Victorian London.
We will follow a few lamplit streets.
Listen as rain begins to fall.
Before returning to a warm room where you can drift off into a cozy sleep.
Say.
Let the bed.
Take the weight of your body.
.
.
Your hand can rest.
Allow a little space between your teeth and mouth.
Let your breathing.
Just.
Move at its own pace.
The scene can come to you in small pieces,
A window glowing at dusk.
A familiar feeling of warmth.
The sound of rain above umbrellas.
You can simply listen as I describe it.
If a detail needs changing for your comfort.
Then let it change.
And please remember,
You can fall asleep at any point.
I'll carry on the story as you rest.
It is an early autumn evening.
The year is 1895.
You are staying in Bloomsbury.
In a comfortable London house with a green front door.
Earlier.
You remember that you left your belongings in a room overlooking the back garden.
The bed is neatly made and a lamp waits beside it.
Now you have decided to step outside for a short walk before turning in for the night.
The pavement is broad beneath your feet.
Above the houses,
The last of the daylight rests along the edges of the chimney-pot.
The sky is pale there.
It's deepening to blue as your gaze moves a little higher.
.
.
Your coat.
Sits comfortably around your shoulders.
An umbrella hangs from your hand,
Its curved wooden handle smooth against the palm of your hand.
You continue your walk and you pass a row of doorways,
Each reached by a few stone steps up to the entrance.
You notice a brass knocker catches the light.
And beside another door.
A pot of late autumn flowers rests against the railings.
A woman arrives.
Carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
She shifts it beneath her arm.
So she can find her key.
Then looks up.
And offers you a nod.
You return the greeting.
And continue your way along the street.
When you get to a corner,
A lamp-lighter stands beneath a tall street lamp.
You watch as he raises his pole and a light appears inside the glass.
You pause,
With a little anticipation.
As it steadies inside the glass.
The stone beneath the lamp becomes visible.
Along with a small leaf lying near the curbside.
The light from the lamp reaches part way across a doorway.
Until it rests on the polished edge of its letter plate.
The lamplighter lowers his pole.
And moves on.
Further down the street.
The next lamp begins its glow.
So you follow at a nice,
Easy pace.
There is plenty of time to take in and look at all the things you pass.
You notice in a downstairs window,
Someone has placed a lamp beside an open book.
A chair stands close to the table.
With a red cushion leaning against its back.
As you pass,
A hand reaches toward the curtain.
And draws it across the glass.
Ready for the evening.
The room disappears leaving a warm glowing rectangle of light.
You walk on with that small glimpse of an evening at home lingering for a moment in your mind.
You come to a short row of shops and stands ahead.
In the stationer's window,
A writing desk holds a few sheets of paper.
And you notice a small glass.
Is in Borto.
A notebook lies open beside them.
You can see the neat stitching along its spine.
The way the blank pages curve toward its centre.
Behind the counter,
The shopkeeper wraps a purchase in paper,
Folding the ends meticulously.
And draws a length of string around it.
Next door,
A florist is bringing the last of the pots inside for the night.
One fern remains in the window.
Its fronds spreading above a dark clay pot.
A few chrysanthemums stand in a jar beside it.
Their petals.
Or mace.
Golden in the lamplight.
The florist gathers a fallen leaf from the sill.
And gently places it in the basket.
You linger for a while as she straightens the edge of a cloth beneath the flowers.
All along the street.
The day's small tasks are now done.
Drawing to a close.
A shop door is being secured.
You notice someone folding an apron.
And carefully laying it over a chair for the next day.
You continued toward the garden square.
Carrying only your umbrella.
The pleasant warmth of your coat.
The street opens up beside a garden square.
Through the iron railings,
You can see a path curving between the trees.
There are leaves scattered all over the lawn.
A few are still holding their summer green.
Others have turned the colour of the stone houses around you.
You continue to walk beside the garden.
Looking through the bars as you go.
A bench stands beneath a plain tree.
One branch reaches across the path.
And the leaf.
Turns gently on its stem.
You stop near a lamp where the pavement is clear and level.
As you stand here,
The square feels spacious.
The houses on the far side stand beyond the dark shapes of the trees.
A light appears in an upstairs window.
The air is feeling a little cooler now against your face.
You notice the scent of the earth from the garden.
A small drop touches your hand.
Another settles on the sleeve of your coat.
Making a darker mark on the cloth.
You look toward the street lamp and see a few fine drops.
Passing through its light.
You lift your umbrella and open it up above you.
The fabric settles into place.
A few drops land on its surface,
Making a soft,
Pattering sound overhead.
You adjust your grip around the handle.
The house is only a short walk away.
And you know the way back.
You carry on beside the railings.
Little by little,
The rain becomes more even.
The stone of the pavement darkens.
And light beneath each lamp.
Begins to spread in the reflection.
You watch one reflection tremble as drops reach it then move on to the next.
Above your head,
The umbrella holds its protective,
Steady curve.
Rain reaches the garden leaves.
A broad leaf bends beneath the water gathering on it.
Before a drop slips from its tip.
And then it lifts again.
You stand for a moment,
Fascinated watching that small movement.
Then you resume your walk.
Your coat is warm,
Your feet are dry,
And the rain has found a rhythm.
You can listen to as you go.
At the corner of the square.
You turn into the street that leads home.
You recognise the houses now,
They are familiar.
You recognise a doorway with a round window above it.
And the little iron gate beside the steps.
Rain rests on the gate's curved bars.
Through a nearby window,
A cat sits on a folded cloth,
Its paws tucked beneath its chest.
It watches you pass,
And then lowers its head.
Your umbrella tilts slightly as you look toward the house ahead.
The green door is beneath a sheltered porch.
A lamp glows beside it.
You make your way toward that light,
Listening to the rain above you.
Water follows the edge of the curb,
Turning around her.
Small fallen leaf.
Once you are under the porch.
You close your umbrella.
And let it hang beside you.
You have a moment to look back along the street.
Lamplight rests on the wet pavement.
The garden square lies just beyond that corner.
You take the key from your pocket.
And turn it in its lock.
You can feel the warm air reach you as you open a door.
You step into the hall and close the door behind you.
Your umbrella stands in a tray near the entrance And you hang your coat on a wooden peg and set the key.
In a smooth dish.
Without the coat,
Your shoulders feel a little light in there.
The warmth of the house reaches your hands.
The cosy light of the lamp lights the passage towards your room.
A carpet softened your steps.
You open a door and find everything just as you left it.
Your belongings put away.
The bed waiting invitingly for you.
And an armchair.
Beside the window.
A small fire has settled low in the grate.
So you decide to take your shoes off and leave them neatly beside the door.
There is a folded blanket on the armchair.
You sit.
And draw it over your knees.
The chair beautifully supports your back.
And your feet settle.
Comfortably.
On the warm rug.
Beyond the glass,
Rain falls into the small garden outside.
The garden reaches toward a brick wall.
Where a climbing plant spreads across a trellis.
Near the wall is a small glass house.
Its panes catch the light from your window.
You watch a drop travel down a glass.
Slowing where it meets another.
And then continuing toward the wooden frame.
The garden becomes a lot less distinct as the evening deepens now.
Your window begins to reflect the room.
The shaded lamp.
The edge of the chair.
A corner of the quilt waiting for you on the bed.
For now you settle a little further into the cushion.
The blanket resting over your legs.
And for a while,
You simply listen.
Rain on the window.
A softer patter on the glass house beyond it.
You're breathing,
Moving gently as you sit.
The muscles around your eyes can rest.
And you let your eyelids close.
With the warmth of the room,
Around you.
When you are ready.
The bed is only a few steps away.
You fold the blanket over the chair.
And settle beneath the bed quilt.
Your head,
Finding the soft pillow.
There is space to adjust your shoulders.
And find the position.
That's perfectly comfortable.
The sheets are smooth against your skin.
You draw the covers into place and let your hands come to rest.
The lamp beside the bed.
Has a low,
Steady flame flickering.
You turn it down.
And then out.
And settle back against the pillow.
There is still a faint light from the embers in the grate.
The window is a faint shape across the room.
You can still hear the rain beyond it.
Your coat is drying in the hall.
The umbrella can remain where you left it.
Here.
The mattress takes your weight.
Your feet rest.
Beneath the soft quilt.
Let the muscles in your legs become easy.
Your hips can settle.
The bed supports your back.
And the pillow hold your head.
Allow your jaw to soften just a little more.
The evening walk can drift into the distance.
The lamp beside the garden.
Rain resting on a leaf.
And the green door opening into warmth.
Leave all those pictures where they are.
Rest here.
Your breathing continues in its own gentle rhythm.
The covers are so comfortable around you.
And rain falls beyond the window.
As you lie here,
Cosily.
In the womb.
Allow your attention to become loose.
You can.
.
.
You can lose place.
You can lose place in my words.
With the rain,
I leave you.
I'll leave you now.
With the rain.
Rest well friends.
Have a beautiful night.
Namaste.
