Today the sun feels like it will shine every day. I’m sitting by the window, books are piled next to me on the desk and around my feet too. Coffee cups clatter in saucers from the café below. Up here I can see the elegant old lady make her regular Saturday trip around the town. Immaculate shoes and hair, the May sun does not tempt her into t-shirt and trainers, she is a dark rose in her black, pressed coat and hair of perfumed steel.

 

From up here I see a man limping to work and stone coloured flies clinging to the cracked lintels.

 

I see the shadows changing, eaten away by the noon hour.

 

I can see that a May breeze ruffles hair, flowers and silk. Eyes are dark shields which reflect the sun.

 

I see the odd Narnian lamp that protrudes from above the property shop, burning its orange light for the dreamers who, even on this perfect spring day, long for the snow of other lands.

 

More thoughts: a crow in spring is an odd sight, incongruous as a beetle on a birthday cake.

 

All-white is a bold look, especially for a man of a certain age.

 

In spring I dream a lot. I dream about handless knights and which cloth is more holy – blue or red. I dream about lands far away and the land under my window. In spring I dream so many dreams that it is best to merely note them down for now and work a story from them later, when the mind is calm, on a quiet day in August or September. This is the season of burst and bloom and I must run while the blood is hot.

 

Just as Camus claimed that autumn is a second spring, spring is my first autumn. Books lie open, split fruit spilling seeds that grow in the mind without sunlight or water. On a day like today I believe that the equinoctial times are more powerful than the solstices. Life begins, life continues, life moves.

 

Spring: my fingers fly across the keyboard as they have never flown, they are using up every available space in notebooks and paper scraps. The mind can concentrate and wander in equal measure. In spring I am strong and free, at the height of things. Perhaps it is all an illusion, bold but temporary, as bluebells and hawthorn foam.

DIARY

Notes To Spring

Blairgowrie, Perthshire

spring. twenty-eighteen

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