A morning spent wandering through old photos of cats for a cat book I am working on with Graffeg led to a melancholic mood of remembering, so when sitting at a computer became too much I took book, pencil, Skellig and camera with Bella, out for a walk. The rain had washed the sky blue. I found a path of flowers.
The path to Maes y Mynydd is overgrown, a bracken path. Surely it couldn’t have been kept open by the footsteps of one man?
I walked towards Maes Y Mynydd, talked for a while with old ghosts and new, thinking of ashes and the scattering of them, remembering, then on to the Fox Rocks where I sat, wrote, watched a kestrel hunting and choughs fly.
Then home, and all along the narrow ancient cart path craneflies swarmed. There was a single swallow with the last of summer carried on her wings. Blackberry brambles snagged at my skin to pull bright beads of blood.
Back home the bright beauty of the garden glass lifted my spirits, as had the warm sun of autumn and the wings of the kestrel and the calls of the chough.