I have been in my garden this morning, beneath clouds which carry the memory of yesterday's rain, the promise of tomorrow's rain, and all the vivacious light of today. It's interesting how kneeling on the earth, twining your hands around wild grass, feeds the words you want to speak.
Soil, I want to say. And weeds and bees and the mystical scent of rosemary. I have so many gardened words today, I would just scatter them all here without the niceness of grammar if I didn't think you would find that too strange.
This afternoon is indoors time, quiet time. One of the benefits of living with an artist is that they understand the need for uninterrupted hours for creating. No guilt, no apologies, just closed doors, and plenty of tea, and music played through headphones, and the air wild with sandalwood incence and dreams. So I'm going now to write bees, weeds, earth-stained hands and eyes the colour of rosemary. I hope you too get what you need for your afternoon.