The days of summer are dropping, like the flies falling into the cooler days of August.

Land became lake in the first downpour of Autumn. 

The soft gristle of a pencil, grey against the beige of a blank page in a old but unused notebook, whose corners are creased from their meeting with rain.

A spoon intermittently clinks against ceramic; milk silently splashes paper and the chewing of breakfast cereal resonates from my jaw.

The sounds of morning, otherwise silent (except passing aeroplanes overhead).  

"She has wings, my child, born with wings she was."

He smiled as he put his emptied glass of water down next to the screwdrivers on the hallway table. We’d spent an hour or so talking about immersion heaters and broken boilers, between the tales he shared of his disabled daughter and a wife lost to a cancerous battle four years prior.

"There’s no parts", he told me, "no manual to fix it". We were jumping between electrical speak and his profound snippets of a life-well-lived. 

Then close your eyes and drift softly into the embrace of black, dreamless slumber.

Through the open window wafts sugar laced, baking cake mix from a home across the road. In a moment, I’m taken back to being seven years old, stood in my Grandmother’s kitchen, cheeks sticky from licking the bowl of raw cookie dough. 

We laughed, like siblings should, a shared humour misunderstood
of any sense of sensibility from others of different blood.

On the pages of Dali’s early years, an unknown hand underlined entire paragraphs, enthusiastically made illegible notes to the blanks of the paper and exclaimed YES! to the words she’s (for I presume, with the lick of led, a woman’s wrist) read across the chapters recounting Salvador’s creativity from teens to twenties. As the pages to the left of my thumb fall heavier than those to the right, the penciled notes become less frequent, until corners are no longer creased and markings cease entirely, leaving a life only half (un)read

From where do you come, unanswered and missed call, with your unknown digits and silent ringtone. Are you but another prerecorded message; even so, why not speak after the beep, next time.

I’ll wait behind the moon for you, he said, some years before a fatal last breath.
And still, she stands by the window when the curtains have been drawn, stars cocooned around her. 

Summer skies and still, moonlit nights.

Finding dead flies, stark reality of the fragility of life.

I woke before dawn to travel four hours North across the border. Caught a couple hours sleep, head-lolling neck ache and cramp in my feet, but it was worth it to get out and shout, good morning Edinburgh.

Twenty minutes after my alarm, I was by the lakeside, trainers on and early morning sun waking my sleep- stiffened shoulders; earth, sky, forest and water of the lake singing Good Morning May in the breeze.

The first rays of the beginning of spring, babies in prams and puppies off leads, cameramen filming and gentlemen escaping.

Procrastinating with words (isn’t procrastinating at all).