Matilda Maricella is abandoned in France, Her affaire must wait, for whilst I was writing about her, summer crept upon me. She will understand (I hope you do too)…..

The inquisitive hen.


A while ago i wrote of how

i was filled with words 

but something has happened since then

 and now

it’s my heart that’s full

(my brain is empty)

i no longer want to speak 

or even write since summer has arrived 

Instead I want to leave those jumbled words behind

and go

where wildflowers grow haphazardly in soft purple ditches

where rushes whisper by lonely lakes and white bog cotton shyly dips

her wispy head among rows of darkened turf

and clouds are of importance

where blue shadowed mountains are mysterious and beckoning

where the singing sea is soothing 

where i can be silent and wandering

i will go there soon enough 

soon enough



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