Yesterday if I was stilled, everything was calmed, peaceful, as it should be. By the day's end I had almost the hang of it.
Today if I am still, a cold draught stings at comfort.
When this happens, it is time to go walking in the woods.
Warmth blossoms in layers as we stride in that direction.
The wind must approve, for it moves clouds and lets the sunlight keep some
heat.
Down at the base of the river valley trees, it is
sheltered and full of history: tunnels and ditches and collapsed stone. Trunks
of wood float ominous in the dark quarry pools: light and breeze sweep the
surface, make a net of polished glass, a mosaic of sky.
Back at the table in the living room of our little
cottage, I sit to write. Mr puts bread and cheese under the grill. I hear the
grill pan clatter. The wind moans as it catches on wires, it blows a black
cloud of starlings out of an oak. I hear the frantic arm of the lucky waving
cat, ticking like an over wound clock.
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