This is where I live
For Joe Harkness, author of Bird Therapy.
Here, where lichen and moss soften rock, gorse scents the air, land meets the sea, meets the sky.
The voices of small birds texture the space- skylarks carry the song upwards. In the distance a kestrel defies gravity.
A hawk, so swift, but small, a merlin? Dances the air with wings spread, tail braking, turn-on-a-sixpence speed, hunting, chasing a songbird, so close I feel the stir of displaced air from her wings.
And wheatears, just returning from far away lands, dusky blue backs and soft peach breast with the flash-of-white tail.
These are the quiet days, days of blossom and birds song.
And the earth holds the sounds our grandparents would recognise from their childhood, though perhaps they might wonder at the loss of birdsong.
Let these bee-quiet days be a turning point.
Listen. Look. Think.
Walking home I chose the old path, through the tunnel of blackthorn, cool in the shade.
Tangled with brambles and memories of walking with children on sun-bright days, small suns of celandine in the grasses.
I stopped for a while to visit a friend, sitting on the bench, warm in the garden, talking with ghosts. Social distancing through time. Read, if you will, the post from 2013, and you can meet him too. He loved his house, and the birds and this time of blossom.
I sat for a while to gather thoughts and words, remember a friend. He knew the songs of birds, recognised their shapes.
I’d left a stone at the top of the hill. Gold and stone. An offering.
I love this place. Here, where lichen and moss soften rock, gorse scents the air, land meets the sea, meets the sky. This is where I live.
Beautiful place. How I wish I were there.