The old, wooden door to the dining room creaks theatrically,
as I push it open & slide carefully onto the chair near the window at the big wooden table. I look out at the the delicate colours of the wooded hills, ever-changing, never static; whether brushed by a breath of wind or touched by the changing seasons. The morning sun, rising through the mist paints the moving trees with shadow & light; the eggshell blue of the fragile sky shivering with shredded wisps of scudding cloud as the day comes to life. It’s a day for musing, & for writing.
Tony headed off across the world to Aleppo, after a brief breakfast of milky coffee; & as ever, I attended to the animals’ needs before my own. And then, because I have my next commission from ‘Smallholder’ magazine, & because time flies all too swiftly beyond reach if you let it, I sat down to write the next chapter on our journey towards our dairying dream.
Thus all in all, a thoughtful day; the chores were completed by the time nightfall had crept over the ffarm & shrouded the wooded hills in a pall of darkness, ever earlier as winter approaches with relentless determination. And as I wrote, researched, & remembered, the lonely luminescence of the single candle flame in the dining room window sent ghosts dancing across the heavy ivory curtains as bats wheeled & whirled outside the window & an owl cast forth his mournful voice, echoing over the night-dusted valley.
A musing; but not amusing – rather, reflective reflection in the mirror of the soul…..