good days

There's a slow rising mist over Hala beck and golden light from the sun as it peeks its head over a cloud bank. All the birds are singing like crazy: as if they know something. Everything looks a sort of golden green colour: the boughs of the trees, the walls, gates, fenceposts and sheds, even the greenhouse glass and sheets of corrugated iron; like everything has been painted with bacterial greenwash - I suppose it has been.

All the chikkins are in a fine perky, peckky mood. They rush out of the coop as soon as you open the door - it's funny - I call it the charge of the light sussex brigade. They've left a mountain of poop to clear up after our weekend away, but it's all good fertiliser which I will mix into the greenhouse soil when I dig it over.

Things seem simple and uncomplicated up here. I like the stillness and just sitting watching and listening to the birds and the warming sun lift the moisture off the damp grass in swirls of mist. I like not thinking sometimes; it's like a waking dream - you sometimes get it when you're playing music really well, and it just flows and feels effortless. Good days.