I chose the soothing rhythmical sound. I put the battery in and I listen, fondly as the dainty shabby chic clock sounds time.

Time for the heart to beat and the blood to pulse. Time for the blackbirds evensong and for the honeysuckle to smell like a pipers flute.

Smells like home. Smells like bay and conkers and merchant ships from the east.  Smells like skin, like salt, like baked potatoes and butter and I can taste autumn and pumpkin and the scattering of leaves.

There is always one who naturally sweeps the fallen leaves to pile and then again to blow. To sweep. To swirl. To keep. To curl like Goldilock’s innocent hair on the tiles among, the golden auburn autumn palette, laying on the hairdresser’s floor.


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