Bee

There was a bee caught in his room. It was bashing itself against the window. Over and over again it buzzed and fretted. I fetched a wad of envelopes to use to coax him out of the opened window next to it. It took some time and I knew I was upsetting him further. I asked for help and he went eventually, succumbing to the urged offer of the envelopes as resting place and then he was off into the blue. And we all breathed a sigh.

I’ve the page to face in a moment. The empty page. I’ve been writing it my head for some time already. Keep it clear, keep it simple. Be authentic. Tell it from the heart.

Uglow’s book on Gaskell is drawing me in. Shall it be one of Harriet Martineau next? Such women.

The bleating of the sheep from the field beneath the National Library is an incongruous sound as it finds its way into our upstairs kitchen. I hear it in my bedroom too. A town caught between the sea and the field. A fisherman drove past me in his pickup as I walked down towards the harbour. Then I saw his boat, lit up with a strong staring searchlight, heading across the water towards Aberdovey. How I love those lights. So hopeful. Though I’m not sure why. He kept slowing down and changing the light from white to red. Was he collecting lobster pots from below? I’ve no idea of the season for such things.

He brought me asparagus for lunch. They were divine. And there is the promise of rhubarb too – though from the field not the garden. They are finished, apparently. Soon there will be gooseberries and blackcurrants. Then damsons. It is the small things, don’t you think?