Butterflies.

These memories are like butterflies hovering.....

Not flies buzzing

Or eagles circling.

Perhaps like the breeze that gently moves the leaves on a summer’s day.

It’s summer.

The train stops twice, once just beyond the tunnel, the second time on the other side of the valley.

The memories are always of leaving the train, never entering.

Something is about to begin.

At the first stop, once the train has moved on, cross the track and follow the rough path of other’s feet, through the bushes to the houses beyond.

Climb the street.

The last house lies in a dip.

The dip is dark and some of the house is dark.

But there is a bright spark, burning with an effervescent blue.

In the corner at the moment but one day it, she, will step out into her own.

And the world will gasp in surprise.

At the second stop, wait not for the train.

Cross the platform and climb the street.

It is not steep.

But it’s grey.

No one knows what to do here yet.

At the top, cross the junction and take the road belong side the food store.

Stop here.

Buy wine.

Honey.

Fruit.

Then continue, turn off to the right where the road breaks away into dirt and the Mimosa bloom.

In the spring.

It's Spring now.

Turn again at the bottom, left.

The dogs will start barking here, ignore them.

And follow the dust and broken tiles until the dogs stop.

And the iron gate is there.

Push.

The butterflies will surround you once again.