Thunder rumbles again.
The day has darkened and rain is falling. Pale silver threads against a backdrop of green-black trees.
It is June. Only days away from the solstice. Here in leafy England, the nights will soon begin their slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.
The sun shone bravely this morning. In my secluded, fragrant garden, I sipped tea and listened to bees buzzing, to the gurgle of water in the pond, and to an insistent song in my head that would not stop playing.
And now, at my ancient oak desk in this far more ancient room, on this quiet, directionless, stranded afternoon, I cannot remember the words.
I want to write, but I have no words at all.
I notice I have just absent-mindedly typed your name onto the page. I stare at it in pleased surprise. It is as if you had just whispered my name. I delete…
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