Caused me to write the following - How we'd felt the force, the heaviness of the air as it bore down upon us. This air was like molten glass, but only slightly warm, and soft, very soft to the touch. It cocooned us and at times danced in eddys around and about flicking our hair and shirt tails, dresses and sleeves with ease. Crocodiles merely flipped their tails and plunged silently under the surface of the lagoons and flat rivers that wound across savannahs. The sylphs of the air, those with the tresses, beckoned or ignored us as they rode on the currents weaving their magic and silliness. In the late afternoon of the estuary, the silent flocks waded then glimpsed passing migratory birds and rose in swathes to meet the red of the dying sun and the brown evening air of the marshes. We had lost nothing at all as we stood still on the broken shells of the coiling beach, with the tussocks and jetsam, then, memories of the parlour clocks, dog dish afternoons, sofas, firelighters and cosy oven gloves. Nothing else was true - only this - If only...
And then this photo from a recent trip up the smoke, and the words under the photo https://www.instagram.com/p/DG-HapEIh2F/?igsh=eHBsd2VodGRibGd0 Thankee all, for bearing silent witness, Simon
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