It's early, 4 am. It's going to be a good day, the darkness is a kind of blue. A spooky mist is rising from the lake. As the sun starts to brighten in the east it gradually takes on a warm tinge. It is very cold but the wafts of mist promise the warmth of summer. The small cauldron of the lake is steaming into life this May morning. Two swans . . .
December dusk from my window
When it is over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply . . .
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around a lake
Some mysterious things go on in the world. Many that most of us don't expect, support or buy into. While we all have to mull over and face up to our fair share, it is often hard to find solutions to the myriad of problems that absorb us. Foxglove Lane is an oasis from that place ; no politics, no economics no pessimism, no solutions are . . .
