First the balcony break

Feathered clouds fissure the sky

stretching in electric wisps over my balcony home.

I luxuriate in busy nothing, languid hammock ooze.

Dancing to myself, awaken oh sleeping hips, find your life in the radio.

Cold watermelon and a pile of books.

Blue sky and orange tiles.

Postcards home

Lazing away sunny days, my skin has turned a definite different colour. Surrounded by lovely chilled people. Dreads and guitars, fires and drums, beaches and cider, dirty hands and feet. Green trees and wild pigs. Sleeping in a hayhouse, handmade everything. Herding horses from one valley to the next. Planting beans in straight lines and finding them sprouting when we come back from the beach. Outside, every single day.
Nothing in particular on my mind.

Wide flat green and a huge blue sky. Down a streak of white road gallops a black bullcalf, snorting, pausing, trotting, bucking and tossing its head. Behind it, at a respectful distance follows a comically small white van, shepherding, implaccable.

The image flashes for a second and is gone. The train moves on.

I am rediscovering transience and stretching into it. This is where infinity exists.