A slow flapping low grey heron flew past my bedroom window in early morning misty light, almosy filling the window. A wonderful magical start to the day.
Mist and cowslips and air thick with the texture of skylark song as I walked on the airfield and tried to count how many. It was a symphony, beyond numbers.
Medieval nursery rhyme carried across time and I want to take it on to a new generation so draw a hare and a hart and a lady and a knight.
Conversation with American company and it seems that things are going well, and all so far is liked and we are singing the same song, so now more to do and to write and to draw.
Headed for the high hill for peace of mind, with notebook, just incase. On the Fox Rocks the sun slid through the bright golden gorse. Surrounded by dogs in a bed of dry heather lay back and looked at the dancing moon glowing brighter in the evening sky, closed my eyes and thought and then a rush of wings so close I could feel the wind they stirred, but opening eyes saw nothing. Raven, dragon? Whatever, it was swift.
There was a blackbird saluting the setting sun, oystercatchers, small bell like voices of linnets and pheasants disturbed by foxes. On the path home bluebells everywhere and small paths made by badgers, the striped bears of Britain.
And later I went to the beach to watch the moon setting but all was a veil of mist. I stood on the beach with the sea roaring in my ears and the mist making the world a small circle of white light.
A good days work done.