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For The Sunday Muse Prompt #44 and some words from The Sunday Whirl Wordle #392. Image “Ireland” by Emily Soto, fashion photographer \\\* Maybe it was the scent of roses- freshly cut, wafting in on the evening breeze that stole my attention; the jolt intruding the same way the reverb of a gentle tap interrupts a deep reverie, a dream receding as though it were a distant vista seen through the lens of a collapsing wormhole. Where cold, hard, and grey once reigned, a wreath of red leaves begins to spring, its colours a bright tide more alive now than it ever was.

For The Sunday Muse prompt #43. Image Source. \\\* Child of Mother Earth, dust, breath, fire, and water, from clay formed, stitched together by the finger of the Divine. You, who are a string stretched taut between the past and the future unbroken in the present, have simmered beneath the pressure of hell and high water, bearing the burden of a message preserved for you. But now like a bird set free, you must take wing and fly. I call you by your name, Alafiaoluwa, Be peace.

Image: “War Horse and Peace Horse” by Sue Halstenberg. For The Sunday Muse #42. \\\* You and I like two fiery stars locked in the embrace of an eternal dance are becoming as one, our light growing in Coherence brighter now than it once was. Against the odds war and peace are finding common ground, making all the broken whole again.

All it takes is an extended patch of wet and cold weather for things to descend into chaos on these islands, this latest batch of snow, heavy winds and cold weather culminating in flight cancellations and severe weather warnings amongst others. For the most part, I manage to survive - extra warm clothing, walking gingerly to and from work in the wet slush and almost continuous heating being the sum of the adjustments I have to make. It is at the weekend when the rooster comes home to roost in a manner of speaking. Having turned up at the airport for my 8.20pm flight down to Heathrow, delays till almost 11 pm are announced until at a few minutes before midnight we are advised the flight has been cancelled. Remarkably, everyone who should be on our flight is remarkably sanguine about it all, helped I suspect by the sense that the weather ‘gods’ have been at it again. Between the final announcement of delays and the flight being cancelled, we find (from Flight radar) that the ‘plane designated to carry us away to London has made several attempts to land at the ‘Deen but has failed due to fog rolling in. They eventually get diverted to Glasgow whilst we make an orderly line at the front desk to get our flights rebooked. I move my flight by a week and then head home, not before I find out that the woman in front of me in the queue has family in the same area of Surrey that I’m headed to, and very much like me, she makes this trip every two weeks so. Joking about being four-day spouses, does have a ring of truth to it though. For me, it offers evidence that this thing - having a foot in two different countries - isn’t exactly impossible to maintain, mild weather-induced irritation notwithstanding. ...

For The Sunday Muse prompt #41 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 388. Image Source. \\\* Green with a hint of yellow, the tender tendril pushes past the strictures of an empty bottle. Outside, the chill from snow piled high smothers everything, its weight like a bland, white blanket inhibit ing life. The shy and the retiring do not inherit the delights of this benighted world, only the tough who blithely swipe away civility appear to win the trial of perception. ...

For The Sunday Muse prompt #40 and The Sunday Whirl Wordle 388. In The Middle of Freedom, Image Source. \\\* My fingers mould the pliant clay beneath the surface of this puddle into an image of a memory; each mound of earth rubbed round between my fingers a portion of a story emerging like birds set free from a gilded cage. The memory is a chain anchoring the fluid present to the stable past. It pulses like a thing that lives - somehow more alive with freedom than at first it would seem.

For The Sunday Muse #39 and Wordle 387 from The Sunday Whirl. Image Source. \\\* Here in the shadow Of despair, loneliness Hangs in the air like A wet coat, the silence Like the weight of pebbles Beneath which which one sags, Broken at the knees. Each step towards The distant light is a prayer Of repenting, for forgetting What love in the wild Feels like. Step by step, walk after walk We are making this world Whole again, heeding the Inner call to become Wild and free again.

Dragging myself out of bed to begin the motions that will end in my lining up at the starting point of this week’s Aberdeen Parkrun, it strikes me that it is just over a month ago that I shipped myself and a couple of bags out of town for an extended holiday season. In between there have been pit stops in various parts of Surrey, East London, Chelmsford, Kent and an extended traipse through several towns within the Valencian Community. A second full week of work has beaten any remnant of festivity out of me, which heightened the sense of finality of the park run. I have come full circle, back to the grind of life. Wash, rinse, repeat. The run itself was hardly memorable - three minutes slower than my PB from last year putting the surfeit of Christmas pudding into perspective. ...

Image Source, for The Sunday Muse prompt #38. After Dan Howell’s Piano. \\\* Although her lithe and petite frame Shivers in the chill of the falling rain, Her fingers pound the piano’s keys Into submission to the rhythm of her will And with the libation of her song She sets us free to dance in the rain.

Between a dull headache, rheumy eyes, a rasping cough and my –at the best of times – dodgy night time vision, I suppose it was inevitable that I would ride shotgun for most of our time in Benidorm. Inevitable or not, that did little to settle the simmering discontent that gnawed at my insides each time we had to hop into the car and go somewhere. To compensate I offered directions, commented on lane switches and approaches to roundabouts and generally made myself as obnoxious as possible, particularly when other road users came close enough to see me sat in the other, non-driving seat. In my mind, that (ultimately useless endeavour) made it seem to others that I was in control, orchestrating things from behind the scene rather than being the mere passenger I was. Patriarchal tropes and stereotypes aside, it offered a front row seat from which to observe first-hand all the little discourtesies female drivers endure on the roads. Away from the immediacy of the moment, memories of Adam Gopnik’s New Yorker piece on the subject of learning to drive came to mind. Not that the fact that other men, far more intelligent than I, have struggled with this absolves me of blame here. ...