Walking the path at the southern edge of the field, the setting sun casts my shadow fully 30 feet forward. My umbral hand clips a rabbit who, sizing my threat, decides against giving me the benefit of the doubt and lollops away. At my feet, rooks’ feathers mark a scene of battle.
I turn back. The hedgerow daisies are rivers of silver. The Sun is falling behind a fist of cloud propped on the horizon; a fat gold coin dropping into a black silk purse.
gorgeous.
when ya going to write that novel? xx
Meg I think that I may be unique amongst middle-aged, middle-class men in not having a novel in me.
There could be a whole library in a belly that size…
You may not have a novel in you, dearest, but a grand few kids/young adult stories? Without a doubt.