Clock Time - Thursday 11/08/11

We arrived back at Lammas as London rioted. Even as other major cities followed suit, I couldn't have cared less.
We are re-adjusting at our own leisurely pace. Mother and baby appear to have taken the transition in their stride.
The land here is bursting with natural abundance. The hedgerows are voluminous and already harbour young fruits. The fields are shorn of their latest fleece of grasses.
I watched two tractors cut and gather grass on a section of field I scythed earlier this year. I took a relaxed week. They, barely ten effortless minutes.

Once again, I find myself milling timber and helping Ayres on a build I dug the foundations for one year ago. The two I tamped in the process, shed its bruised nail only a week or two ago. The anniversaries seem everywhere yet serve little purpose.
Psychological clock time. It is redundant and meaningless here.

Ayres' Build

M Jones

The Trauma Of Change - Sunday 29/05/11

Now life is boring. Worse than that, harrowing. Four days ago, I had over 1076 acres of land to roam on. Now I have barely a quarter of one. Not even the park can sooth the sadness in my heart.
We saw more police cars on the short walk back than I have seen over the past year living where we do in Wales.
Frances is miserable. The few children playing outside appear difficult for her to connect with. In all honesty, I don't want her playing with such drones. Filled with McDonalds and Nickolodean they are junior consumers in the making. Or are they? The innocence that remains in them may be the most precious nugget of beauty left in this urban jungle.
At the park I wandered away from the manicured zone of half inch grass to the wild and tangled border of the hedgerow. Here I sought familiar beings but even the hawthorn is not the same. Already carrying berries, they are ahead of their welsh cousins and alien to me. Amongst them, species I don't recognise nor wish to familiarise myself with. I should. I may given time.
I found a lone ash tree, and my heart tore as I saw the scars and disfigured trunk. Half its height stripped of bark. Wood naked, cracked and stained. I failed to hold back the tear that rolled from my eye and down my cheek. It was I that became wounded. I who cried in pain. That tree sought no pity. Instead shoots were emerging, life's unstoppable force leaking through its cuts.

My muse has left me. I can write no more today.

Pooky Coming To Terms With Her New Environment.

M Jones