Midday
I walk outside for the first time today, and peer up. It is 12:11pm.
What has been grey and wet the last two days is bright winter blue, wispy white pillows moving eastward. I have to squint a little, the clouds are bright. The oak is bare, another month of winter still, but the mulberry is willing spring to arrive (I am with the oak, please, leave the cool to kiss my nose and cheeks for many mornings still to come).
Bees alight on immature berries, collecting pollen from what will soon, too soon, be plump and juicy purple. Her leaves are unfurling, bright and spring green. The ground is still sodden after months of rain, but soon some of that rain will be juicy berries, purple stained lips, stewed fruit on icecream.
Today is my baby brother's birthday. He is nearly as old as me now, except that is not how it works. I remember his arrival still, that sweet squishy face, big beautiful eyes even then. I realise I am just about at midday. My Nan lived to 100 and I want to too, so if that is the case I am not far from halfway there. What a thought - both liberating and terrifying. To have half a century still to make art and weave a deeper connection to this earth is a dream, a divine gift. I try not to lament any waste of my metaphorical morning. And so, more often then, I shall walk outside and look up at midday.
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(this month I am following along with Susannah Conway (Ink on My Fingers) #augustbreak2022 prompts. Today’s prompt was ‘midday’)