Taking out the flowers to the compost. They have faded now. They leave behind a trail of petals like Hansel's stones, all along the early morning garden path that is loud with sparrow song.
Walking in the early morning with Helen, who remarks that the sea looks like Cinderella's dress, the third and final one in the Ladybird book from our childhood. Shot silk, pale with deep folds. So still.
I say that the temperature is that of Baby Bear's porridge. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right. In Swedish there is a special word for this.
We walk home through the warm ruins of Maes y Mynydd where the skylarks sing and buzzards mew. And still I do no writing. Except for this.