The house on the hill

Late afternoon, from the house on the hill into the winter-chill, against the biting wind and along the high-fenced tunnel-lane. Quickly, step by step, to the short-grassed paddock with its gradual rise to steep slopes littered with lichen-covered rocky-outcrops. On the ridge, beneath ancient pines is the shaggy outline of a winter pony. The wind reddens fingers and carries a small voice to the pony in the distance. Ears prick and the pony trots her way down the winding sheep-track, aching for a warm pat, and her working-horse mix.

Clamber through fence, rusty barbed-wire grabs wool and pulls yet another strand. Stroking the pony’s neck just behind her ear, soft dust coats palm and fingers, grime lodges under nails. Her breath and mine come in white puffs as the evening pushes the sun below the hills to the west. Minutes pass as the red pony munches and snorts; the cold really sets in. I lean against her shoulder stealing some of her warmth and watch her mouth nuzzle at the food, her breath blows small pieces of chaff around the feed-drum, where it sticks to the moist sides making patterns I try to read the future from. Too soon she is finished and after a few more pats, she turns and heads back to the shelter and comfort of the old pines. I watch her as she walks up the steep hill, tempted to call her back for just one more happy moment.

Early evening, the wind howls and I shiver as I grab the feed-bucket and negotiate slowly through barbed-wire. I walk along the tunnel-lane and emerge to see the lights on in the house on the hill. It looks warm and inviting, but most days it is anything but. I put my hands to my face and inhale, the pony-dirt lingers in my nostrils as I make my way, slowly, to the house on the hill.

By George she (they) did it!

A really big thanks to Peach, who despite an eventful past few months, has driven the You’re Not the Only One project to completion. Mwah sweet Peachie! Of course she had loads of help along the way from these tops sheilas: Ariel, Desperate Sarah, Ms Robinson and Vi...thanks gals!

Go check out the preview, buy the book and support the charity War Child.

Rise and fall

Before the sun comes up, our day begins.
In the small hours before dawn we touch as we wake.
Our breath comes slow, then fast.
They are our finest hours, those small ones.
On the horizon, the sun teases the landscape with light and warmth.
We part.
Before the sun comes up I flit off,
sometimes to capture what I can of those sun-teased dawn-moments.
And you go to create artful, beautiful, man-made things.
Muted colours, creativity, strong love.
Our sun always rises.