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A Red Emperor Butterfly landed on the edge of the cracking white window frame. Its lush carnation red wings contain diases of ceramic blue. It fluttered off just as I typed. Dead wasps and flies make dusty little ornaments for the lintel. It’s a sad chapter of lost potential.

Sunlight is warming the small of my back through the glass of the conservatory ceiling. My hair feels soft and fresh, doused in shower heat. My mouth tastes of curdled milk. Outside, I can hear the piping and chirruping of birds twittering behind me. The leaves of the elm and beech saplings are pinking on their ends. It is the very opposite of blanching; they are blushing, crab apple pink.

My back is bent over the bamboo armchair. My fingers are racing to catch up with my mind, racing behind my eye. It is the machinery of this writing. The sun behind me is inexplicably white, a vast melted core of light. I hear the cockerel’s call; it is deranged actually. Chickens are brainless creatures, when you watch them you realise how much of their life is taken up with following each other about. Men chasing women, women chasing men. Randy randy. The land behind me has always been organic. Sarah told me this proudly. She said that she doesn’t feel that she owns it, but that she is the custodian of the land. As this second warps around me I admire her profound achievement.

The land.

It sings with life.

 

17th October, 2015

NB: Photograph taken by Nicola Johnson

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