I was thinking about where all the pieces of joy were going to come from or if they were there anyway simply hanging from the tree branches like crimson coloured glass baubles sparkling in the dappled sunlight of a summer's evening. It could be about nine o'clock of an evening in June when the day clearly displays its reluctance to start drawing to a close and the leaves of the Mountain Ash appear to shudder at the prospect of darkness. A guitar can be heard - a faint strum in the distance beyond the clad ceiling and closed doors. Yes, it is the joy of music, the sound of chords being formed by long fingers and a desire to hear the sweetness of notes merely married and borne out underneath the slight pressure of finger on string. Joy is that. It is a freckled face - my son - in June - a sifting of sunshine, a speckle of youth.
Soon we will get to eat the Mangetout, a quick golden toss in the pan, the flavour, the glistening green, the organic freshness. If you give joy, find joy, discover joy, insist on being joyful, they you will recapture joy in abundance, it will come spilling down on you like the sifting of freckles dappling my sons face, delicately drifting like powdered sugar slowly falling, slowing falling, resting lightly, dying slowly.