The Lark Ascending

I didn't understand how the night could  be clear on the fields as though all the mist had been funnelled  between hedgerows and onto the roads half way to nowhere. We slept, we got up and heard about the bombs in Belgium; we went to the funeral which was simple and dignified, The Lark Ascending marked our goodbyes among fresh yellow flowers.

RIP Phyllis.

We ate well afterwards and came home,chasing a  pink full moon all the way into London.

But there's nothing pink about the mood today. Everything is scratched. It makes me want to close my eyes and be far away from all the small sharp splinters of hatred that seem to be everywhere, covering everything.

I would give quite a bit right now to be walking on a mountain ridge with  bright stars overhead and a warm fire waiting in the house on the hill. Sherlock Holmes' Mind Palace sounds like a chore and a bore. I have lots of imaginary domiciles in lots of imaginary worlds; otherwise real life would grab me by the throat and squeeze. Living in the presence of anger is like passive smoking, some are trained from childhood to treat it as a natural atmosphere. But right now, there is so much around even I can't pretend it's incidental, or that these levels are anything less than seriously toxic.

RIP All those poor people in Belgium

What we all need is a little bit of beauty. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2JlDnT2l8