Boarded
up houses are obvious mysteries, no less fascinating for it, even if you know
the reason why the boards are up and the people are out. We pass a couple, on
the way out to Bude; one a casualty of the recession, one a fatality by fire.
And then there’s one occupied house, a nice looking house with a tidy garden,
which for some months has had one boarded first storey window. That is curious.
Maybe
it’s because we live in a curious town. I have just read an article about
creativity, suggesting that an aimless walk is a viable way to invoke ingenious
reverie. I think, I should go on a town hike, it’s about time I stretched my
words beyond the farm and the sky. Engaging with limited initial subject matter
brings strong discipline to my imagination, but for balance everything must be
varied.
But
for now, it’s Sunday evening and the fire is lit. Mr has fallen asleep on the
sofa, hands in loose fists on his lap, feet planted one shoulder’s width apart.
Dog is curled in the dip of the armchair. Outside the air is post-rain fresh
and the light fading.
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