A hawk on the glove.

It is evening. Downstairs the fire burns.

This has been my day.

Waking early with words tangling in the mind.

Prepping prints for a gallery who have waited patiently and walking the dogs on the beach while the gold doodles dry.

At the beach the wind and the sea are wild. On the way small birds were flung around. Now oysetrcatchers rise and ride the wind, and a redwing wanders the beach. Storm blow-ins. The sea-foam makes mountains and a dragon rests, shoulders arching from the sand, now covered with seaweed he has slept there for so long.

Back home I head for the mill with packed up prints for the courier, sign books, sign jigsaws and Robin calls to say he won’t be home. I have been enjoying the solitude and peace of mind where-in I have been chasing the words for a story but am sad to hear his news that his mother may be dying, in her last days. She is old. Not the easiest of lives lived.

Home to more distractions that I welcome, brooding on Lottie and a long life lived and then settle beside the fire to write while the dog makes a pillow of the soft white cat and then Kevin sends the file with his news story of Ffion and the hawk, a glimpse into my studio and into the wild eyes of a peregrine. And I keep writing ‘muse’, instead of ‘mews’. But maybe they are the same thing for this book.

And I need to update my website, but for now I will leave you with this. And I will go back to the fire’s side and the slow rise and fall of the cats’ breathing, and I will write, a love story.

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