Time to write.
Ten minutes to ten.
Evening.
A sensible bedtime.
A reasonable writing time.
The end of a beautiful November day; doors open, and the warm air pulling you outside even though the floors and walls need cleaning.
But what to write?
The tale of the black bee that found its way inside and then got stuck as the night fell, but was rescued by a play of lights?
That of the robin that didn’t survive its meeting with the cat but which was left as a gift for someone to find and subsequently bury?
Or the one about the deer who was disturbed in the forest by clumsy foot-fall?
Or shall we settle for rumours?
Those of the cold that is coming?
Or the rains that apparently aren’t?
Perhaps those of the village folk that plan to clear the ancient by-ways through the forest and practice a daily transhumance of goats up into the forest?
All rumours have a silver-lining and this one holds the promise of delicious creamy cheese only once before tasted, at the Tuesday night market.
Tales rumours, or facts?
The water in the pond is cold, but not insupportable.
Legs feel the sting of icy needles, before tingling with cold warmth. Cold warmth that encourages shoulders to dip under.
Slowly and for a brief moment only.
It has been over a month since anyone has dared.
It’s an exceptional November.
December will be delicious.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment