Occasional Scribbles

It was a beautiful early evening after a rainy, cold day.  The sun shone brightly back at me, sharply reflected in the puddles, as I drove slowly through the lanes home.  I had a strong sense that I had seen this exact evening before, the light, unusual, the air dense yet chilly.  The trees, washed by the continual rain, now stood out with bright green leaves, almost as they are at the beginning of summer.  It was deception though as already autumn leaves have fallen elsewhere.  The sky is a mixture of a dozen hues of blue-gray and bright golden where the dropping sun breaks through gaps in the heavy cloud. 

I feel over loaded with nostalgia, familiarity – feelings that I recognise but can’t quite grasp.  The scenery around me is so lovely, washed as it is in the evening sun.  I hear the sounds of the chicks in my head; sounds I have heard a million times over the last week.  They are hungry, thirsty, too hot, too cold.  They are dozing, every now and then a contented cheep escapes them as their tiny heads loll drowsily onto the comfort of their warm bed.  I see their little faces in my mind’s eye, the smaller, blacker one with the tiny black beak and the bigger one, soft black and gray, downy fur.  I imagine them greeting me as I peer into their box to see if they are allright, their little faces stare up at me, delighted I am there.  They nestle in my hand occasionally pecking at an invisible speck.  I bring them up to eye level and look into dark, black as soot, bright eyes.  They adore me, I am Mum.  They are happiest when I let them rest in my lap, carefully wrapped in their special little socks.  I think fondly of their delight to be outside in the warm September sunshine, unsteadily moving about their world – the wheelbarrow, toppling over every so often and frantically scrambling to get back up – showing me they are improving.

Their voices call me as I meander through the lanes.  I don’t rush.  I don’t worry about their hot water bottles cooling or whether they are hungry or thirsty.  I can take all the time I like – I don’t even have to go home.  Maybe I will drive a little further, watch the sun go down over the far off horizon, sit in the after glow for a while.  The closer I get to home, the slower I drive, no breakneck speeding as I did this morning, rushing as fast I could with vital life saving liquid food purchased from the man who knows about such things.

I hear the sound of the church bells float through the car window, a slow ding, ding, ding, ding, then silence.  Suddenly a peal rings out loudly as I round the bend to home, catching a glimpse of the church as I turn into our drive.  I walk through the gate and stand looking at the bell tower.  The lovely peal continues.  Somehow, the ringers chose to ring tonight. My own small private service.  I send a small, sad prayer upwards into the sky.