Dangers of an Idle Mind

  Another blast of wind rocked the caravan and smacked fat, heavy raindrops against the thin windows, open a crack for ventilation. It was Sunday lunchtime, and I was looking through the grey rain at some of the gaily, and now shiny, coloured holiday caravans that punctuated the large field. Beyond the furthest caravan a line of sycamore trees separated the campsite from the shingle beach, which in turn edged the English Channel. The Wessex Coast in May was always a bit of a gamble weather-wise, and I smugly congratulated myself, again, on deciding to rent this two-bed-with-TV-shower-and-cooker permanent caravan, instead of bringing our frame tent and camping.    Behind me Ben and Max were lethargically watching Sunday cartoons on TV. Ben was nearly 6 while Max was 4 and this was our boy’s weekend. It hadn’t originally been planned as a boy’s weekend, but their mother had decided I needed  bonding time  with my sons. It was it was not lost on me how the requirem...

The Greenhouse by The Tin Man The garden was vast, walled in by stone so high it seemed to hold back the sky. Ivy clung to those walls, thick and tangled like my mind. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, sweet flowers, and something I couldn't name. Bees and butterflies moved from bloom to bloom, absorbed in their own busy roles. I walked with the old lady. Her lined face and white hair bore witness to years of tending to this oasis. She spoke softly, her blue-grey eyes sparkled as she talked, pointing out her successes and other places where work still needed doing. The greens were lush, and some overgrown, brushing against my legs—knee-high ferns, hip-high grasses, leaves that shimmered with dew or shook dismissively in a gentle breeze. This, I thought, is peace. I glanced down at myself and was struck, but not upset or shocked, by the strangeness. The clothes weren’t mine. I was not in my body. The shirt hung differently, the shoes pinched. I was wearing someone el...

This is the last re-post f0r a while and is rather long. It is a re-posting of two of my favourite pieces dealing with Southern England's Suburban wildlife. Seems foxes are really settling into the suburban lifestyle; even bringing into the well tempered gardens of Surrey the kind of behaviour that normally is reserved for behind the white patterned net curtains of suburbia. Let me explain, just before Christmas 2007 I was in England, staying at my sister’s house in Surrey, I was very intrigued when one morning I opened the curtains and noticed a black object sat in the middle of her, otherwise blemish free, lawn. The object looked about eight inches long and a couple of inches across; it was a glossy wet from the morning dew. Over breakfast I mentioned the object to my bother-in-law. “It’s a fox.” he said. I peered out of the French windows at the black thing; prominent and obvious on the lawn. “No it’s not,” I said, “it looks like a kid’s training shoe.” “I know it’s a shoe,” sai...

*This post was originally published in October 2008 (I was alluding to more than winter BTW). I have slightly changed some of the wording this time. It's still my personal favourite. One for the Fall lovers. I awoke this morning in my southern New England home to the sound of the wind pushing against the house. Outside the sky was a crisp blue. The multi-colour leaves of autumn were lining up like golden sky-divers; waiting for their cue to leap from the trees and then tumble and dance down the hilly road. The wind breathed excitement and animation outside my window. Until recently the heavy foliage of summer had stopped it from reaching the green frog that hangs, unspinning, over my deck. But now that the fall has come you can see patches of sky again and the frog spins madly throwing off spirals of reflected light. Speedy, Sparky and their friends that inhabit the grassy bank, are nervous. The sweet smelling autumn wind moves everything and drowns out the normal sounds of safe...

This piece was one of two pieces originally published in 2009 at The Spartan Opinion as 'Benny “down” Hill all the way' In the late eighties I was a support guy working from a narrow closet. It was just wide enough for a desk and chair and long enough for the desk and 4 or 5 floor standing computer systems which kept the room very warm. The building did have high ceilings and at one end of support room was a slender but tall, window that looked out over Teddington High Street. Teddington is an average, small suburban London town, ten miles west of the city along the River Thames. The High street had the usual assortment of pubs, small supermarkets, fast food shops and banks. Our building was next to the Barclays Bank The sun arced from morning through noon and onto dusk. People, buses and cars all passed by the tall window and the changing leaves on the trees across the road marked the seasons passing. Not much happened day to day in Teddington but there were little distra...

Although by ten O’clock the late August sun was already high and warm in a spotless blue sky, the nights had been getting cooler; it wouldn’t be long until the harvest. I stopped the old tractor and killed the engine; silence washed into the vacuum left by the rusty motor’s noise. From the driver’s saddle I could look down across the shallow valley at our three large fields of corn. I found myself wondering again how the crop could wash and ripple across the fields even on perfectly still days like this. It can be mesmerizing and the ocean is only broken by the straight narrow strip of the road to St. Martenne. The highway may be a normal two lane road but at this point in the summer the corn crowds to its edges giving the impression of a narrow avenue. Looking to far end of the road I saw the blue convertible appear. Since the middle of July it had passed by every morning at this time. It is why I too, was here again. The car sped between our fields, parting the golden sea. The faw...