Someone had written something on the sand with seaweed. It took me awhile to read what they had spelt out. And then I got it. FREE PALESTINE, it read.
Coming back home after a full walk, even including the Perygyl, I listened to the blackbirds’ song. I counted 5, 6 maybe even seven different voices. I saw one on top of an eave along Llanbadarn Road, the rest were just sounds. All unique. Were they conversing, challenging, or communing? It was beautiful, loud and resonant.
I lived in his house for three months when I came back from Norway, before he and and got our little flat together. He is an old man, now, as he was then. I like him but he keeps to himself. His home was not a comfortable one but it was shelter and I appreciated it. I passed his house this morning and noticed that his recycling bag wasn’t out. He is a man of regular habits and he’d always put out his recycling on a Monday night. Is he OK? He says he will call to check, the friendship is his after all.
