THOU ART MY ISLAND
There's a breeze that blows before the rain. It meets the resistance of the rhododendron, braced against the weather, not a trembling but more a stiffened shaking, a soldier standing to attention in a storm. This is a day of hibernation, a day with no plan, free flowing. Water begins to pour through a carck in the eve shoot of the house on the corner. I'm home for the holidays. My first day. Been up since 8.00, having gone to bed at 10.00 and now it's 11.00. Still not dressed, a coffee and a tea later. Brown bread in the oven. The ship that brought me home sailed at 2.40am and at t hree o'clock in the morning on the upper deck of the Ulysses I found myself stretched out on my back, looking up at the sky. It was black. At first! And then the stars came out. They were out already. It's my eyes that must adjust. I think of Aelfred sleeping out beneath the stars; a woman in the Sahara doing the same and I wonder will I do likewise when I arrive at the des