A Packet of Brown lentils.

You don’t know Janice.

Even if you’ve read every word of every post on this blog - itself unlikely – you won’t have met.

She works in a supermarket on the high-street, wears an anaemic-blue tunic.

She hates it.

The job.

The tunic she likes, makes her look cool.

Hot.

She’s waiting ‘till something better comes along (job wise), though it’s not clear what she is hoping for.

A union perhaps.

One involving a ring at least.

At the party a week ago her ex kissed her, and expressed interest.

She was happy, said that now they could come round and meet her mum. 

“I haven’t told her that we split up.”

It’s not obvious that the ex’s idea of union is that long term.

In fact Janice has seen neither hide nor hair since the party.

Her surname dates back to the twelfth century, it’s meaning relates to the local geography of Yorkshire.

But she would be happy to change it.

Right now though she is giving change of a five pound note against a packet of lentils.

Brown.

Then she goes back to waiting.

A shirt, a woodpecker and eternity.

 

In a forest grove - not far from here - pine trees stand like pillars reaching towards the heavens. Early in the day, sunlight streams amongst them and a cathedral silence settles over the tangled undergrowth. The only parishioners are birds and insects.

 

The hum and drone of the bees is devotional - the chatter of the birds, choral.

 

In the confessional, a woodpecker rattles out a forgiveness.

 

And a man has stopped on the track, transfixed.

 

Two white butterflies drift around him as if they are his very thoughts.

 

Neither begotten, nor forsaken. 

 

The man is wearing black shoes, black trousers and a black cardigan – but his mood is not black.

 

Besides, he is also wearing a shirt of blue and green checks.

 

A blue that reflects his childish memory of the sea.

 

A green that matches his eyes.

 

His mood this morning is one of joy – orange, like the t-shirt he wears beneath everything.

 

The man is searching.

 

Not looking for something lost, but something already found.

 

Discovering it anew is his salvation.

 

He turns and walks further into the forest, a small bird skips along the path in front of him.

 

The bird is not afraid.

 

The man stops, says hello.

 

The bird says nothing, there is no need.

 

Three horses in a meadow walk over to the gate where the man passes. All four stop. 

 

Commune.

 

On the hill before home he picks up a fossil. A clam, both sides closed for eternity.