a day of writing

a story that will not work

a shredder that does

a valley called Hope

we find a wool shop open

so many colours

one muddy puddle

beautiful white fluffy dog

heavenly match

the simplicity

of toast and tea and writing

meditatively

old stone walls hand-built

drape the land, an ancient wind

moaning through the grass

this next stage of life

after those long middle years

feels like a rebirth

a golden dawn sky

fades to grey and birds hush their

calls in reverence

abandoned snail shells

a bird’s skull long-beaked picked-white

one single flower

a pair of yellow shoes

walking a long twisty road

how lightly I tread

I drink my tea cold

not that I like it that way

always distraction