Because I decide to get my daily writing practice ticked off the list in good time, go out with Dog to hunt for an idea. Along the middle path lies a cleaned up piece of bone, sheep thigh, I think, a bin forage not a kill.
Flick it into a bramble with the toe of my boot, uncertain, preoccupied. Shall I write of this? What shall I write about?
The answer to this question must come to me: if I chase it, it turns to mirage.
Surrounded by peaceful swaying greenery, I stand, listen to the leaves say ‘shhhh.’ The idea is here, it grows towards me. It is the greenery, growing, closing up the lane.
Two or so years ago, Farmer Landlord borrowed back the petrol strimmer previously left for lane maintenance. He was bringing it back. Half a mile of hedgerow seems like a lot when you trim it by hand. As a rare experience, not unpleasant: as a chore, it makes your body ache. Since we know we are leaving, we have let it go. Nothing is kept in order, things disappear. The granite trough, the rose behind the berberis, the bench I renovated in the record-breaking summer rain; all swallowed into wild foliage.
We have surrendered to nature, let her grass grow like green fire.
To be here and not fret over the keep of the place rejuvenates our thoughts of it, restores every trace of the first remembered, tumbled enchantment. It comes to me and I gather it up, and I need to get this transition right: to sustain the magic, to whittle out the struggle.