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Chapter Twenty Three

So much light and colour -
and the promise of spring.
And it feels now
as if nothing
in this life
will be as perfect
as this moment ...

poem

This might be the beginning of something. Could you please say if it makes you want to read more?

next...

Long time, no post. I was overwhelmed by my thesis.

Thanks for reading.

I think you'll work it out

Children discuss the present and their future . . .

It was everybody’s local -if you were local-an old man’s pub, that had been slapped about a bit, with paint, tarted up, to look younger.

It's not like throwing away memories...it just feels that way.

We lived in a cul-de-sac. A modern 1960s-built sort of square dead-end. Our house was embedded within the square or rectangle of houses which sat around a central patch of grass.

Inspiration Point (sort of)

The room looks different - The flecked wallpaper looks like dried blood.
I keep thinking it is a room to die in, but not to live in. The bed in the corner, a naked light bulb hanging ...

(at the Alhambra Bar and Grill)

The long grass whipped her sun-browned calves as she fled out of the orchard, through the meadow, across the brook, over the railway embankment and into the dark green grounds of home.

In retrospect, the sweater was a poor choice.

Words: 516

She once asked me to keep her young. “There's not much I can do about aging,” I said. So she asked me to keep her youthful. “That, I can try.”

On the bright thread of time
I am nobody’s child
On the bright thread of time
I am not your mother
But some kind of kindred spirit
With the power of a larger body

In the morning she woke, body a sun-baked stone
only her lips alive.
Light streamed through the window
touching her body, dissolving its’ white dust
to gold

“Take the next road on your left and follow it for three hundred yards” she said.