Enjoying the Moment.

Maya loved finding her Easter eggs from Easter bunny. The huge carrot she left was gone. The strange thing is Maya had two eggs before she had found the ones I left on her bed for her while she slept. After discussion, it has been decided that she got two more where she had left the carrot. I will have to check with mummy to see if she put them there. Leo was pleased to find his eggs too, but significantly less so. I think he recognises them from the supermarket. Next Easter I’ll be more cunning. Now the little buggers have gone outside. I think it would be a good time to go out for a little bike ride. It looks like there are rain clouds heading our way, so better get in quick…
Back from a ride. Maya is still learning to ride her bike so I was resigned to running along behind. She is doing well, getting the hang of it. It won’t be long now before I can cycle too. I look forward to be able to go for long bike rides, maybe even taking lunch. Or stopping at a café for lunch, now wouldn’t that be luxury. Get back on the bike after a glass of wine. Or a pint of cold beer. That would be fun. England must be the perfect place for that, with all those quaint country pubs spread along picturesque narrow lanes. Good hospitality and beer. And cycling tracks going through the countryside, cutting through farms, across stiles, around lakes. I remember the frosty mornings alongside the beautiful still lakes, and the falling golden leaves. Drinking sweet hot coffee from a thermos and smoking a cigarette.

Watching sitting fisherman watch their floats. And in the evenings I’d see foxes sneaking stealthily away as I approached. Their long thick tails wagging from side to side behind them as they disappeared into dense forest. Rabbits pricked up ears, noses twitching as they sniffed the cool evening air, before diving into blackberry bushes. Blackbirds would cheep in alarm, breaking in a flutter of wings and bursting from the thicket, flying straight and low for cover in another. The long rows of apple trees tidy and straight, their grey trunks twisted and clean. As the sun goes down the birds erupt in chorus, before silence clothes the hills and darkness wraps the trees. Rodents rustle the dry leaves inside the hedges, and crickets call long and clear from amongst the rocks in the yellow autumn grass. An owl hoots from an abandoned barn.

It’s nearing ten o’clock, and the morning is grey and cool. I wonder of another life, another life where I can write all day of whatever I like. The freedom and time to dream, explore the literary reaches of my mind, the stamping of memories. Recollecting past experiences and painting pictures with words. I can relive my past experiences through re-enactment on paper. I have so many and so varied. And I can find the time, freedom and peace. I will take snippets, chunks and sessions seriously. I want to finally be paid for writing, so I keep this in mind. I look for commercial opportunities for every paragraph. I think perhaps a small book of poems may be saleable. I love my poems, they come from special portals deep within my soul. They make me tingle. I have always held the belief that poetry is rubbish. I now realise that I could have saved my life with them. Imagine roaming the streets of Paris, sitting at a park bench writing as the cobbled streets flow with life. Or dark nights in London, pen in hand. Mornings in Jerusalem. Afternoons in Egypt. And late nights in Thailand. The best thing about it is that I can recall the settings and experience, so I can still write. The doubt is still in my mind about poetry. Who reads it? Who writes it? Can it be cool? How can I make it unique?

The bush, green and dense, damp and spongy. Trees reach up from the mossy ground to touch the mist. Casting shade over boulders perched high on exposed ridges.