Bluebells at the end

The low light of this flat in Brighton. The sound of the sea and the gulls…

I grew up with the sound of gulls, and then London happened when I was thirteen. Going back to places where they wheel and cry helps plug me into ancient memories of warmth and comfort and safety. The years up to thirteen were spent either by the sea or in the mountains, and they were bright safe protected years. I was perhaps in a bubble waiting for a spectacular shattering. But it gave everything thereafter this foundation of warm comfortable safety.

Coming here now is a tonic. We won’t have long together in the coming months so snatching time with Lou is important. Everybody in the world is descending on Brighton for Beltane, but up here it’s a long way from the lagered up crowds on the beaches.

We went to Stanmer and took the high road. We found the motherlode – a huge fairy court of bluebells dancing in the beginning of May. Just in time as well – their moment is so fleeting. Their dance was almost over, the rot already setting in. A great shock of them though after all the rains. Big and small and albino and bright. You can almost hear the music of the fairy court just a sliver of time away weaving and rushing past our heavy logical stone world. We stood and breathed them in. The yapping dogs and groups of youth faded into the wind and we were there with jackdaws and wind, the simple ancient sounds of an English woodland. Mushrooms coming up now. Nothing tasty I’ve seen yet. Turkey Tails and Witches Butter.

We had another roast at our local haunt. Chicken and everything beige with gravy. A ginger ale. And now I’m bathed and warm and very soon to get into a warm toasty bed and sleep my way into may and fire and Beltane and the inevitable summer.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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