David in Pen and Pics

End of a sunny day. Mornings of spring chill. Longer days.

Then the sound of individual hailstones. Many, a short, heavy hailstorm. So endeth Friday.

Just one glass and time for memories.
Surprised that so much recalled after such a long time. Confidence of an old friendship.
Sun slips below the window sill.
Bone structure. That never changes. That patina of age.
Yes, the mannerisms of speech so familiar now. The mouth, eyes looking up, a cconsidered reply.
Long married, successful adult children, grandchildren
Its been a long time

Local cafe. Dreams. A cafe in Paris. A cafe infused with discussion, deliberation, dissent.
Pablo Picasso,  Hemingway, Dorothy Parker,

“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” ,
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
Brevity is the soul of lingerie

Marcel Proust, Sartre, Beauvoir, Hemingway, T.S. Eliot,

“Happiness is beneficial for the body, but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind

The birds and I. Now alone, content, I ride at my own speed. Each trip I ride further, and like a kid, ‘just to the next corner.’
And the next, where pukeko lazily scuttle aside, grazing cows ignore me, always above the blue, blue sky.

When you have been examining your investments. Oh Lordy, why did I get out of bed?

When you explain about social distancing and masks and he asks, “Wot’s for dinner?”

Our Bay tree has been pruned. Pruned right back. Sunlight. Open up the blinds in the morning and behold! There be light.
An afternoon of gerzuzz, crack and thump. Chainsaws, young blokes with muscles and a head for heights.
A pile of heavy, chunky fire wood. Waiting to be finely chopped for next winter.
Waiting

Late afternoon. After work crowd start drifting in. Thames Wharf, a slow beer, fish and chips. Small town, most of us know each other. A passing comment, witticisms, “Come and join us.”
Tide turns. Time to go home. Feed the, “Where have you been furry ones.”