Notebook completed; page un-blanked; th’caress of wind-soothed heat.
In age-long decades past rises the gilt Zimbabwe sun, the gutt’ral summons resonating – roaring – deep.
A ring around old cobble.
The pane that stands between millennia.
Write it; move on.
I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.
A gradual, rolling rumble from few spots on the horizon brings a chorus for the dawn to sail its orange sunlight o’er.
The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.
I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.
Only, really, time for teaching (worth it) others.