The lane that runs from the cabin is sunk deep below the hedge line. The trees have stood watch either side of the narrow, single track through years of frost and rain and whipping winds. I have walked the lane in summer when the ditches were baked and hard. I have shovelled snow from the steep bends to make sure we could drive down the hill on the day that Reuben was born. I have scattered salt and diverted the deep veins of water that threatened to flood the garden. I have seen the bluebells grow beneath the post box. I have seen the white owl cruise the lane at dusk.
Half way along the lane is a gate that opens into a field that runs down to the river. The light catches the reed whips. The sound of the river floats up over the fields to reach the road. The sunlight streams across the acre and touches my face as I stand at the gate. It lights up the new bright green beach leaves and the spiders webs strung between the reeds. The sun is so far away and yet there is warmth. It has dried out the moss that covers the stones that are piled on top of each other to make a wall. I sit on the pile of stones and the moss makes a soft seat that grows warm as we touch. A finch flits through the branches of an oak.
Colette Power 2020
Photograph Colette Power
