My road is a narrow ribbon of grey that urges me to go onward for I know that with each small hillock my small car manages to ascend and conquer that I will be guaranteed an encounter with something different, something special. For the road is constantly changing. There is, for example, a strong possiblility that a small blue lake will appear in the afternoon light, one that was not there before but following two days of rain will look like a permanent feature. I may come across a cluster of pine trees harbouring a clothes line, with white sheets billowing out in a fresh westerly that blows in off the Atlantic. Such a scene gives me a sense of joy, a zen-like quality of what nature brings to this land. If I'm lucky there could even be a lonely herd of uneasy, suspicious looking cows lurking around the bend, a herd of Autumn-coloured beasts of rusts and creams and who eye me with a remote and calculating gaze as they whip their heavy tails back and forth like stubborn pendulums designed to fight off the most persistent of flies but there are no flies in February. Their swollen bovine gaze will flicker at me as I stop the car by the ancient moss covered wall to speak to them, to gently coax their cud-chewing glances my way. No luck. I do not matter to their habitual ways.
But even so this rich tapestry that is this place unravels me and rearranges me and puts all into perspective and I find that I am recovering, moving into a more holistic state than when I began my journey. Cows can do that.
There is the sky - a dash of pink, a glob of orange, a smooth line of grey, a hint of forgotten blue even crimson promises. The day considering its close and I loving this place and making sense of it. There is no yellow on the gorse but it will come soon, come March, come St. Patricks day or so as I recall and all the lonely homesteads with the lost dreams cry out to me and make keening sounds for the empty desolate rooms and the bric-a-brac strewn in the empty forlorn kitchens and the rooms where children were born and yet life that was, is as important as life that is.
I head home. I pull into my house. The lights are on now and H is cooking dinner and when I come in the door I hear the strum of a guitar and the first thing I do is to light the candle on the kitchen table. Then all is complete. I took the outdoors indoors. I took what I saw with my eye and cast it onto everything within this house and those within have to be all the better for it.Nothing really changed. The ghosts have not entered this house yet, but someday they will for that I take good solace and for that is the reason to live.