H comes out from the house and asks me what I am doing and I tell him that I have grown tired of the way our vision has become overgrown and jagged and that I am attempting to let some more light in. He walks away and I go back to the task at hand, the pruning and tidying of what prohibits the view I know exists. 

I don't quite get what happened to have me out in the garden in my Wellington boots at this time of day. Normally I might be taking a hand to a new cake recipe or cleaning the toilets or setting up the ironing board for the mountain of cotton awaiting a smooth, even finish. But no, there I was covered in pollen and dust seeds from the tree and a dream of a new fresh sighting of the Burren guaranteed in no time at all. 

You see the Burren is worth cutting down the growth for. It stretches out across to the south of Galway Bay like an uneven and badly piped eclair yet one that compensates because it happens to change colour at any given opportunity. It can leap from blue to grey to purple and back again in seconds depending on the mood. The weather. 

H must have agreed with my plan because when I looked up again he was back  in the garden, this time clad in sweats and t. shirt. He watched me for a while and noted my plan. But he was off then into his own world, attacking the depths of wild garden that the heavy rain  has dictated this dismal Summer.

Small dog followed me around, moseying her way into untravelled territory. She was a constant with her black shiny nose twitching at any movement I made. Her soul is a true one, a magnet for harmony and I called her to me now and then, threw a stick from the freshly stripped tree, patted her wiry little body, paused with her just to commune and gather unity in myself.

So, this is it. A new vision. A space to breathe. All the claustrophobia is gone. A possible metaphor for a new beginning. I can see the Burren. It is steely grey this minute but with a vague tint of mauve. The window is open as I write. I feel that if I reached out I might be able to touch it. But I do not want to do that because it might disappoint. Sometimes distance makes things more beautiful. If I happened to touch the Burren it might be  be cold and hard and limiting and unyielding so I choose to see it and respect it from this table. A large mound of colour,  constantly changing and yet I love how  there is nothing between me and it but myself. And again, a possible metaphor. I will forever hover out of reach of what I really want to feel. To go there is all possible but another days work.