Three strawberry flowers in the hedge, too damp and dark to make fruit. Cheerful little things, they seem happy to be nodding in a winter breeze. Dog waits for me at the corner, patient with my need to think.
The last day of any year calls for reflection, itches for projection. We see how we got here, and where we should like to be. Sometimes we remember where we thought we would be by now, and feel inclined to give up. I've had those years, where the idea of making resolutions was the idea of setting oneself up to be disappointed: where I have forgotten to factor in how life can wallop a person off track.
I won't give up on building my bridge, from here to where things are so much tidier and we own a camper van. I think, while Dog splashes. All the lanes teeming with streams of turning water, noisy like a running bath.
So much surface water, sees me, and still a skyful of cloud?
Two kayaks in the garden, and two paddles…