my words are few under this greying sky, wind tossing the trees among clouds that smell of rain while the goats stand by, watching in a reverent silence punctuated only by the drag of branch, snap of twigs. i had cut back the brambles yesterday – cool under a distant blue sky, picked my way…
in the cold of morning, before light breaks the sky and stars return to the dark where they are born, i break the kindling set the logs conjure flame from a matchbox – and all the while two owls speak close their words smooth round like pebbles in deep water. i open the doors to…