That holiday feeling

Hi everyone, I hope I find you all well this morning.

I woke early and was greeted by (apart from a ravenous cat wanting to come in) a rather greyer than normal sky, still with patches of blue spread evenly across it, a cool breeze gently lifting the curtains, the call of the seagulls as they circled overhead and a feeling of tranquility passing over me, I felt, as I often do, as if I am on holiday.  It is a feeling that is difficult to describe, but it takes me back to holidays in Padstow, caravaning at Mother Ivey's Bay, standing at the stile between the campsite and the sand dunes, my hair being lifted by the fresh breeze,  the sun on my face and the sound of seagulls above and the waves breaking on the beach, and all this evoked by a gentle breeze rippling through my life as I look out of the window.  Packed lunches made and family off to work, I could not wait to get out for my walk, donning my old sandals (my good ones failed on my walk back from the River Taff and Llandaff yesterday) I set out for the park, still no-one around save the man on his gang mower mowing the grass.  I reach the pond and there again is the lone duck, perched on the pier, this time she has an entourage of four magpies, not molesting or being aggressive, just sitting on the pier beside her, of course they all flew away before I could even reach for my camera, apart from the duck, who looked at me and resignedly turned and hopped into the pond. I walk on and leave her to her peace, all the while the seagulls circle overhead and call to each other.  Yes I definitely have that holiday feeling.  I get home to a message from my friend, who despite sitting for over two hours on the runway yesterday waiting to take off (thank you Fat Controllers (French Air Traffic)) to say she is "In Heaven" having finally and safely arrived in Malta to see her son, have a lovely time, I know you will.  Whilst she is in heaven in Malta, I am in heaven right here, yes listening to the breeze play in the trees, the soft rustling of the leaves, and the tendrils of leaves on the willow trees in the park as they reach out as if grasping for something just out of their reach and yes the seagulls swooping, circling and calling out overhead.

Thank you once again for joining me, I look forward to speaking to you again very soon, have a lovely day wherever in the world you are.  Love Bubbles

The Seagull

When I was a child, before I knew the word 

for a snowstorm, before I remember 

a tree or a field, 

I saw an endless grey slate afternoon coming, 

I knew a bird singing in the sun 

was the same as a dog barking in the dark.

A pigeon in a blizzard fluttered 

against a kitchen window,

– my first clear memory of terror, 

I kept secret, my intimations 

I kept secret.

This winter I hung a grey and white stuffed 

felt seagull from the cord of my window shade, 

a reminder of good times by the sea, 

of Chekhov and impossible love.

I took comfort from the gull, the graceful shape 

sometimes lifted a wing in the drafty room.

Once when I looked at the gull I saw 

through the window a living seagull glide 

toward me then disappear, – what a rush of life!

I remember its hereness, 

while inside the room 

the senseless symbol 

little more than a bedroom slipper 

dangled on a string.

Beyond argument, my oldest emotion 

hangs like a gull in the distant sky.

Eyes behind bars of mud and salt 

see some dark thing below,

– my roof under the sea.

Only the sky is taken for granted.

In the quiet morning light, 

terror’s the only bird I know, 

– although birds have fed from my hand.

STANLEY MOSS (1982)