Upon the hill I stand as still as the trees, not totally frozen, for just as their budded twigs move so does my long hair. 

My eyes are closed. Tousled auburn ribbons whip about my face; blown by air as fresh as any after a rainstorm. After several deep breaths I take in the view, from here the fields are laid out like one of Nanna’s quilts. But instead of her magentas and cyans it is the earthen colours of early spring. There are ploughed fields of brown and the pastures that are still dull rather than having the bright hue of new growth. It’s too early for this hill to have flowers, but I know if I kneel on the wet blades there will already be the tightly folded petals in their green casings, swelling, ready to bloom. These long walks in nature are my treasure, by sanctuary from the busy hubbub of my life.


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