On the road again.

......... to me.

I don’t think you have ever visited me here; you probably don’t think it exists so you have never bothered.

But it does.

The space is small, but comfortable, cosy would be the word. There is no light.

It is raining, and the drips and drops from the tree outside fall and bounce on the tin roof.

It is not music, but it could be.

Beside the tree is a stream, a river, a torrent in fact. A cascading, tumbling mountain rush that skips and spins over the granite boulders, this and the rain are the only sounds.

The temperature is low, my breath is on the edge of condensation and soon I will stop writing and cuddle up under the covers of the narrow bumpy bed.

It is not a bed easily shared and this is true of the space  as well.

But should you wish, there is room for one more.

I have oranges for the morning, first light will wake us and we can wash in the rushing water.

For coffee we will have to move.

This space can do that; it’s horizon has no limit.

 formerly published in The Archives.