We go for a walk, the dog and I. I scrunch through dry leaves and old gravel. She is silent on pads, stepping lightly. She pounces, the smell-earth-warmth the tremor of prey. The sun sparkles on the river, glistening glitter on grey silk. The blonde wood of a wind-torn sycamore points to the sky: blue, endless ethereal blue. The wind moves the trunks screek…screek: old doors swinging in old hinges. Crows fly by caw…caw…caw, harbingers of nonsense I need to listen anyway. The bluebells’ leaves thrust up, purple-edged green, hints of buds tucked down deep, waiting for a warmer day.
