A writer’s kitchen, the kettle bottomless, the Buena Vista Social Club, cha cha cha, the keyboard, tap tap tap.
A writing kitchen, with windows open to the world beyond; bees pass petals, buddleia butterflies loll long tongues, spiders spin between twigs, the lime tree lays down leaves with the graceful turn of a dancer’s wrist.
And with those leaves fall these thoughts, faced with all that beauty beyond; this green life, this bright life, this teeming life, this fleeting life: faced with all the beauty of life, they fall.
©James Bruce May, 2014
