The Herald Before.

Tonight a storm is going to break, in the west the clouds are darkening; strangely the wisteria looks even more purple framed as it is by their blackness. 

The forecast is for rain from eight until one in the morning, yet it is already thirty-three minutes past that hour and for now all that there is is the menace. 

And the wind. 

Fitful, scatty then suddenly insistent, the branches of the tree above where I am lying shake and swirl in random waves, buds of spring fall on my face.

 In the garden a toad calls, maybe feeling that something is about to

happen, the cats are already inside or hidden in the safety of the forest. 

A bird sings defiantly and I feel the first drop of water on my forehead.

I should move, but I am entranced by the energy that is almost tangible. 

But the temperature is falling and suddenly everything has stopped. The air is holding its breath. 

The calm that heralds the storm.

 

 

 

Short version.

Got up, went to bed.

Short version.

Woke, did stuff, got drunk, slept.

Slightly longer one.

Left the bed after dreams in which an exam was taking place and an essay was not finished and the pages of all that had already–been written, lost.

Stretched.

Along the way showered and dressed and fed.

Outside walking, watching the forest day unfold.

A woodpecker at work.

Birds singing.

The first cuckoo of the year calling.*

Cutting wood, clearing pathways.

Reading.

Sketching.

Trying to make sense of a nonsensical world.**

One that’s falling apart all around, everywhere one looks.

Drinking.

Sleeping.

 

* previously published in The Archives. (please note some terms have changed)

** still trying