a sort of homecoming


In the absence of a digital presence, life ambles quietly on. There's space for sitting quietly, for the scratch of pen over paper and the rustle of turning pages.

Spring came, the daffodils I planted for my lovely Nanna started to emerge from the dark of the soil, and then winter rallied and we slid backward into ice and cold and snow.

The birds are back - robins, starlings, red-winged blackbirds, killdeer and even a couple of herons. The frogs sang for a day or two and then went silent under snow and ice. The ravens are nesting in our neighbour's silo again and I keep the ghetto-binocs handy but so far, only the jumble of this year's nest refurbishment are evident. This morning, while walking the Emma-dog, we saw the first of the swallows. Scouts, perhaps. I wonder if they know it's going to snow tomorrow?

Despite, possibly because of, the wintry setback, spring seems all the more determined to push her way through.

A new season, a new start. All things cycling around once again in a calming sort of predictability.

This, too, shall pass, has been the whispered mantra on the edges of the dark and cold.

And so it shall, as we emerge once more, blinking, into the light.


ps. Sea Bride is now available on Amazon. This will be the last indie production for a spell as I turn my attention to an old dream. More on that soon-ish.