It is a soft, still afternoon.
It is slowly stirring from the morning’s drab dullness.
The light is becoming pale honey.
There is bird song floating in through the open window, bleating of sheep, a distant dog barking somewhere beyond the trees, horses hooves nearby.
I live in the country. Trees and hedges, narrow lanes, small ancient villages, a patchwork of fields that are home to sheep or cows or are yellow with rape, green with wheat or blue with flax.
Sometimes I feel far from the world.
It is easy to drift.
I have practised Pilates, I have meditated, I have drunk tea, eaten lunch, and sighed at the world on the web.
I am now tapping out words which will somehow, magically, weave themselves into sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and then a book.
But still, it is easy to drift.
And to let myself think of…
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