Widdershins we walked, on the Longest Day, late, as the
sun descended to a bed of pink cloud. Around the lanes we walked, the lanes
that lay low in the mountains of hedge. Dog's whitish fur was bouncing back
light: our trotting glow worm. Through the tree shadows cow cries came, and
dinosaur snorts that startled Dog.
Since then the feverish time is spent, hot, melted without a pot.
Boy finishes his exams: is making frenetic plans for moving on: The Novel is
ready to start rounds of editing: this is all change. We do not know what will
happen.
Our little world turns.
But in the hedges bloom meadowsweets and wild rose. The path to the river is
light and shade together. The river water muddied and I cannot see my feet. The
cooling feel on these sore feet is calming and then the way the light is
playing on the surface, and the smallest glimpse of rock: it seems to be
inviting me in.
The river has something to convey.
Blind feet slide, several times slip, no harm comes. Only laughing. And the
river says Trust The Process.
And there is the fallen tree that all last summer was our very Dragon in the
river, moved now and wedged by storms, with a branch lying at the perfect
height for a mid-river seat. Dog swims, so happy she forgets to chase ducks. I
am happy, sat on the oak branch, watching the water sparkle. I ask Dog if this
could be any better. Two blue-black metallic damsonflies appear. I ask the
river if this could any more epic: one damsonfly alights on my hand, a heart
shaped rose petal floats by.
I trust the process, I tell the river, I trust. I remember how.
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