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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

This weekend I visited a dear friend I haven’t seen for years.

Waking early,  dressing & wandering in the dewy garden by myself, slowly, committing it to memory, without the camera this time. Accompanied by the most patient of dogs, dogged in her belief that at some point I will come to my senses & finally throw the ball.

Meandering back, sitting on the patio, writing down my impressions.

Another island, this one made of calm delight held between curtains of trees which part here & there to reveal a sliver of estuary. The cry of a young kite – early morning indignant on his favourite high branch, waiting for a parent to bring breakfast. Faint thunder & a slight fall of rain – there is shelter & another place to sit & still observe.

Everywhere, there are flowers. My friend, who lays her passion on this garden, told me she has moved to ‘paradise.’ (She smiled when she said this, slightly mocking herself for a moment’s fancy.) She’s right though – paradise is here on earth, in an abundance of wild beauty made of trees & butterflies & the sound of water. Paradise is the scent of morning rain & small birds feeding; a pile of seasoned logs ready for autumn drawing-in evenings. It’s in the air, in each sweet bloom & I look out toward the sea & breathe it in…

On a whim, the young kite calls, swoops, joyfully showing off: across my line of sight, up into another tree, making me wait. Because it will be worth it & he has dancy words for me. Up again & round in a drifting circle. I watch him against clotted cloud chasing blue, my breath caught.

As he lands again I tuck the moment away, along with a stolen sweet-pea flower & a feather, between the pages of my notebook, for a pressed & tangible memory…

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