The kitchen clock says 8:11. Leaving my breakfast tray, I go and stand at the back door, a school bell in my hand.
I wish I was back in my native land (though nobody knows me any more), where bladderwrack's strewn upon the sand, where choughs and wheeling seagulls cry,
You come upon them suddenly, those swathes of bluebells intense in the clouded light, in this stillness. How many trees? no two alike, each one special.
The other day I stood under a bus shelter with one of those illuminated signs - perhaps you know the sort of thing:- 4 Bus Station 2 min 19 Town Centre 11:41