How suckled we all are on this Spring day toing and froing with our chores, laden with hope, everlasting daylight, slow lazy sunshine creeping onto the back patio as the sun finally labours northward. Our dogs snooze in the gift of light. I spring into a fresh place. My step defined with change.
Out on the road. Oh how glorious our small road can be now. Out of the darkness it comes into its own perfect uniform disarray with colours of flowers yet to come and white horses in a growing field all a whinny and tender caressing as they discuss the survival of the days gone by. And Martin in his field with his ever loyal sheep dog by his side, bending down to fix a stone wall, finding the right niche, the right place to lay another uneven piece to his sodden, barren land. I want to stop the car, call out to him that he is wonderful, tell him that I love his hat, pat the dog, wonder over his complexion but I keep on driving into newborn calves and a sea where a span of white light devours my eyes, a sky that dazzles my ordinary life.
I go to the post office. My stories in my hand. I feel as if I have just given birth. I hand them over. The women weighs them. Asks me if I want to send them priority. I ask when they will get there regular. She says tomorrow. I let them go. Off. Away from me. Like a child. I worry about them then. How I should have paid extra. How I should have changed the words. How I exposed myself within the lines. And then I let them go like the geese I saw fly over the beach. How I stopped in my tracks, my hands covered in sand and I was so keen to watch where they were headed that I never noticed how the tide can be so devious. How it came to cover the place I stood, rushed in without any warning and still I stood there so caught up in other things was I.