The town is profuse with wild flowers, about which neither of us know anything. I have a go at the names but they are wild guesses, so he bought a second-hand book so that we can learn. Valerian – common and red – is everywhere. They have tight florets of bloom and long, straggly leaves and stems. They seem to emerge in a clump. They are mostly down by the harbour, growing amidst wild poppies, Michaelmas daisies and Orange Gerbera. They are also blossoming among the graves in the Cemetery on Llanbadarn Road. They don’t seem to have a scent. (The book is a little disappointing, I would’ve liked a little more folklore. And isn’t Valerian taken to help you sleep?)
I saw two trails this morning. The first was left from when I saw the Asian woman carrying her recycling bag to the bins yesterday afternoon. An oozing of a white liquid (could’ve been milk) was leaving a line behind her. It leads all the way to the bins and was still there this morning. I watched her from our kitchen window with her daughter straggling behind her in a pink dress. The other was in the sky. A plane, off somewhere exotic or returning. It was a gorgeous white line against a pinkening sky. And then there was the little baby. A blackbird-let, I think. It was huddled against a low wall on North Road. I spoke to it. It didn’t look in distress, just bewildered. Did you pick it up? he asked at breakfast. No, I said, I wanted to but what would be the point and I would only terrify it.
Writing this morning. My writing. Is it easier? No. I ask even more of myself.
We talked about going to the circus.
