It is the waiting around as the morning progresses that tugs at me: a gnawing frustration. A non-happening. The rain outside is all-pervasive, unwelcoming; I want to get out into it, to shake off the warmth of the house and the stiffness of inaction and engage with the wetness and vitality of water-charged air. February weighs heavy; the morning drips and pools. I look inward until I can get out: chores,tidying, looking after . . . a feigned neutrality. . . what needs to be done.
The Spring at Malvern-Midday : there is mist up here and no view. The air is cool in the nostrils and sharp; it cuts away the torpor, refreshes; no wind, but swell and drift – a vital, tangible thing. Drips hang off every tip; branches are bare; the birches haze purple. There is a palpable sense of expectation. Snowdrops gather together in humble corners; demure, but strong-unshowy outriders.
The well runs clear and steady, the moss shines impossibly in the dim misty light; bubbles, smooth convolutions, a pouring through of energy rather than a pouring away. The whole process revolves, a bigger wheel turning through, but somehow beyond our narrowed view. Water, light and sound stream through me. I stand and watch, feeling it somehow, but failing to connect – a shadow of what the heart demands.