He just wandered over when we were sitting out reading (well I was, he was sitting with his eyes shut, his book on the ground). He (we called him a he, who knows really?) didn’t get too close, though when he went in and I was left alone he did inch nearer. He stood still a lot, just occasionally opening out a wing and stretching it out. I don’t know what he was waiting for, or why he choose to stand near us. Was it a need for company, or am I being sentimental? He had a patchy head – was it an infection or had the feathers just not grown yet? He looked forlorn but again perhaps I am attributing human characteristics when there are none. Maybe he had hopes for some food. Should we feed him? I threw him a few blackberries and he ate one but left the rest. Overhead two seagulls chased off a red kite, making a hell of a racket. Brave souls.
Town was quite this morning, though the sea was livelier. The moon was a slither, that’s all. Three youngsters came round the corner of the castle, laughing loudly. It jarred my peace. One of them, a girl in white-rimmed glasses and white ankle-socks smiled at me. That felt better.
I like this bit – this part of a project. The not quite beginning bit where you’ve made a start and everything is still possible and you haven’t yet exposed those germs of ideas to others’ scrutiny or indeed tried to shoe-horn them into the Arts Council’s funding criteria. Can I do it? I long for simple authenticity – to do what feels right. Can I pull it off?
