If the sun is out the grass will be dry, and hopefully the wind will kiss me only the gentlest of greetings.
My notebook pages will thus be stilled, and not be blown over and over like a dove somersaulting down a slope, and the pen will be as accurate as arrows upon the page.
Outside the library the gardens will be welcoming; flower beds a-buzz and a-flutter and the civil war statue will be watching me, swords drawn to protect my speech. Many good words could flow from there and I'll pay no attention to the jibes of park drinkers and young cinemagoers.
Or how about the Castle, or opposite the Castle on the park, envying the boat owners as they cruise along the river? Lords of their gin palaces all, they are equally despised and adored by me, “if only I had their money, with my grace and taste.” What I write shall reflect this, a bitter dissolute version of the little match girl face pressed against the glass of the opulent restaurant window. Behind me families will throw frisbees and play football and drink wine as I leave my usual man shaped outline in the long grass. Daisies are crushed but day dreams aren't.
Perhaps I shall head to the Sconce and have a cup of tea at Rumbles; the Parisian intellectual transported to the Civil War Earthwork, enjoying the view and the bees and butterflies as I drink my tea. Is there a chiff chaff? Is there a whitethroat? Listen idly to the radio, doesn't really matter on a clear cobalt day if the words appear or not.
By the church? In the cafes that yawn tables out upon the market square as the town awakes from sleep? On a bench inspecting the architecture for yet more things I've never seen before?
Or home in my garden under the trees, occasionally flicking the greenfly off the sycamore leaves, and watching the swifts carve up the sky with their wild screams of joy?
Copyright CreamCrackeredNature 16.05.14