Over this last week I did remember to go to work, then came home and back to writing.
Popped outside to admire sleek ice every now and then; sometimes stars nestled in their velvet sky.
One cold sunny morning the elder trees were pruned, and the wild rose in the rockery.
Spring flowers were pushing up, not enough to lift the winter slowness, nor should we be in a rush to be rid of winter. We need our fallow times. Slow is important.
This morning I dropped the car to Race Hill Garage since the tyre and handbrake warning lights are sparking up without reason (that I know of- a sensor may need replacing on this, my metal ox). Walked home facing the whip of the wind, glad of the long coat I was wrapped in.
Stopped to photograph a lone bull - it’s your Year, I call to it, we too are in lockdown solitudes, let us have solidarity. It bowed a bovine head to continue chewing.
Looked up to the treetops of the Small Woods where the spring buds hold tightly poised.
It is good to rest, and good to make ready.
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