but I’m still tying my laces. I’m watching the clouds stretch out and the storm welling, watching the butterflies – why so many? – in the construction site garden, only just worked out it’s an Anderson shelter foundation that I thought was a flower bed or compost dump in the back corner. The chemicals moving and changing in my head, another memory locked in, for a while, another me-component. All this data to gaze at, to wonder at. That’s why people write, must be in part, in hope that there’s another lonely soul somewhere out there that reads the lines and shares something akin to that wonder, glances up from the page and out to the clouds and there’s some kind of sharing. It’s the wolf call from the deep ravine.
It’s gone time I bike out to see Riverman, he always grounds me.
