My body sits. My skin prickles across my spine. Like my hackles are up.
Alert and attentive to the wind.
Occasionally someone cycles past.
There are hundreds of varieties of Oak trees.
This one has copper leaves attached to its branches all the way through January it seems.
Noisy as they rush about on their axis like plastic wrappers in a whirlwind on the pavement.
A man in a flat cap inspects his allotment.
This place is on the edge, away form the houses and roads.
Edge means something different to me than to Someone.
To Someone, edge means somewhere to leave unwanted plastic, to scatter strips of rubber, away from their house, away from their road.
This edge, to me, is somewhere away from houses and roads - to walk in quiet thoughts.
This edge, to me, is quiet.
Even though it is school break time. A playground filled with shrieks and screams and laughter from small voices.
It is quiet.
Even though on the roads that border this edge, heavy vehicles roar and vibrate metallic tones.
Here, it is me and the wind.
Here, my body sits still.
Here, a man in a flat cap shows me how his dog likes to run.
The same man who said: "
cheer up it might never happen".
The same man I smiled at with a smile that said:
"I'm not sad, I'm thinking quietly - it might never happen if we hope, if we love, if we wonder, if we smile"The dog lies down and waits as the man in the flat cap walks a hundred yards, he calls his dog. The dog runs for a couple of yards, straight to a wonderful smell. The man tells me the dog is not very good today.
Like the bird caught in a cage to sing for her captor, an Elder has hooked a white plastic bag to dance in circles. Pirouette after pirouette.
A grey pigeon watches seated on a weighted branch.
The wind blows. It is quiet here. On the edge.
