After setting a gatepost in concrete and starting all over with crazy paving leading to the front door, I met my brother at Flotterstone for a walk and a long ruminative blether.
Then home and, as there was residual light left from the gone sun, I clambered up the logging road facing the Tweed valley, jogging into the forest and on to Scrogbank.
At the junction there, I looked up at the silhouetted pine trees, dark against purple-grey cloud cover. Above their high branches I sometimes glimpsed a soft warm gibbous moon rushing motionless through the vapour.
Wind clamoured softly like a sea without waves or shore. Hit the pine-tops, set them dancing, resonating.
I looked, listened, described in my head, with words and sentences. Words that spoke my experience.
My truth.
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