Some Clouds, a couple of Cats and an Aerialist

When was the lat time that you lay on your back outside and stared at the clouds?

I did just now.

There were low clouds sliding from the west towards the east and higher ones that seemed to be going nowhere.

And then I closed my eyes.

And listened.

I couldn’t hear the clouds but high up (and far away) I could hear a plane - and low own and close I could hear bird song.

A crow called - and a gust of wind (from the west) rushed towards me sounding like the sea.

And then I opened my eyes again.

The low clouds had disappeared, the motionless ones looked back.

“Are we framing the blue” – they asked, “or are we here because of the blue?”

The wind – still from the west - turned colder as the sun faded behind the vapour - blue became grey and ocean became surf.

Crashing over the trees who are still struggling to proclaim the spring within.

A cat came.

Went past.

Stopped.

Sprayed onto a fallen branch covered in ivy.

Wandered off.

I went inside.

Broke some bread from a baguette.

Returned and wrote.

This.

A different cat came.

Stopped by the ivy.

Sniffed.

Opened their mouth.

Sniffed anew.

The two cats are not siblings but they share the same roof.

I closed my eyes again.

A plane rumbled

Birds sang.

A village church bell chimed.

It’s difficult to write with closed yes, so I opened them.

The blue was now firmly in the east.

Overhead was grey.

A bee buzzed past.

Another.

Tomorrow is Saturday – performers will dance (suspended from ropes) in the air in the distant village.

I will go.

The village is in the East - the morning will be bright.

Blue.

Welcoming.

One of the cat’s – the second - has just jumped on me.

Scared me – a little.

I welcomed him – once the fear had passed.

At least my eyes were open when it leapt.

I will close them now.

Some Time Later.

This place is special.

A wooden deck, a table, a chair.

In one corner a set of chess pieces – roughly hewn from a damaged tree.

On the floor, a blanket.

Dried leaves from the autumn surround the deck, bluebells push upwards under a yellow bush.

Dandelions surround a rusty iron bed frame - where Irises grow from a stone wall.

A bunch of twigs - gathered during the winter - lie where a pillow could. 

And all around, the birds sing.

A woman sits at the desk, she has finished the coffee from the pot on her left.

An empty cup is by her hand - that cup is orange. Her favourite colour.

She can still taste the coffee on her lips, her tongue, and when she swallows her throat remembers.

She is writing.

She planted the bluebells, she made the chess pieces, and in the summer she sleeps on the iron bed.

The rust doesn’t trouble her.

She loves the dandelions.

When they transform she will use them to check the time.

One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, now.

The time is always now.

But she is writing about the past as she is unable to do anything else.

It is the only thing she knows for certain.

The future will be some time later.