The crowd surge forward. They all wear blue. Despite the uniformity, I pick out faces. Each expression is unique. I focus on a young man – his brown eyes are round and expectant. His childish complexion gives him a glow. I don’t want to see him dashed.
The birds tick time outside my door. I count the seconds, the colours. Such small lives. The bluetits and coaltits are the everyday ordinaries. If they were human they would wear a suit and tie, hold on to their jobs for dear life.
The tractor scores bright lines in the field. Four bales of silage already loom, great barrel-shadows with a sheen of their own.
Her song finds the spiders each morning, moves along the webs until they quaver. It doesn’t occur to her to dust or hoover the creatures away. They are hers. She admires their composition. Legs, a bare tremble. Heads, like black tears.
I’m a regular at the circus, since moving to Ireland four years ago. My Mum-in-Law’s field provides the perfect base for visiting circuses and means that Hubs and I get free tickets! Circus Gerbola was the latest troupe of entertainers to settle in for the weekend.
I’m missing Swansea this week; the place, the feel, my family and friends back home. I enjoy life in Ireland but sometimes I just get this ache . . . It’s probably because it’s over four months since my last visit.