Ticking Over



Yesterday if I was stilled, everything was calmed, peaceful, as it should be. By the day's end I had almost the hang of it.
Today if I am still, a cold draught stings at comfort. When this happens, it is time to go walking in the woods.
Warmth blossoms in layers as we stride in that direction. The wind must approve, for it moves clouds and lets the sunlight keep some heat.
Down at the base of the river valley trees, it is sheltered and full of history: tunnels and ditches and collapsed stone. Trunks of wood float ominous in the dark quarry pools: light and breeze sweep the surface, make a net of polished glass, a mosaic of sky.
Back at the table in the living room of our little cottage, I sit to write. Mr puts bread and cheese under the grill. I hear the grill pan clatter. The wind moans as it catches on wires, it blows a black cloud of starlings out of an oak. I hear the frantic arm of the lucky waving cat, ticking like an over wound clock.



Comments

The Cranky said…
Is that a water sprite dipping it's toes on the far side of the first photo? Perhaps it's waiting for more of your lyrical prose...
30 March 2013 at 01:28
Lisa Southard said…
It most probably is a water sprite, Jacqueline, this is a good habitat for them- and I often do talk prose while walking- like the idea of having faerie fans! :-)
30 March 2013 at 13:44
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