Is a gentle and beautiful morning.
The night was restless. He is not feeling fine. Kind of hard to sleep when you wake and find him tossing around restless, a fever burning his skin. I am a bad patient, but he is worse because I am no nurse.
Yet, I leave him in bed in the morning and when I come back he insists he wants to go to the bloody court. For the case. A while ago, he wasn’t on fire with activism. Now, he will rise from a sickbed to show his will.
A beautiful morning.
I have been seating on the verandah, looking out on the valley as the sun pushed her rays higher. Is beautiful, that time of day. Listened to the bird song, and the quiet after, to the happy gargling screams of children off to school. Childhood is a beautiful time- little fazes them.
But now it is quiet. With the calm of a morning of promise.
I have to remind myself that I have a lot to do. And am waiting on lots of other things-; doesn’t stop me from immersing my mind in the calm, and the peculiar realm of poetry. Dulce et Decorum. Wilfred Owen. A certain cruel, bleak cadence.
I don’t know what the day will hold for me, but it is certain that I have to start off on some of the things I have to do!