Clouds

The clouds in Norfolk hang like postcards in an antique stately home. White dust off the walls swirls and waves hello. They are the guardians of all wanderers who drive past. We look right for a gentle nod – knowing all is good.

Candyfloss clouds hang over low-ceilinged pubs serving tall burgers. Time to tuck in. Each has a story here – from a silent alcoholic to fractious family, perhaps the ink on the certificates they’ve signed runs too heavy now. Also a hopeful graduate – with decisions to make.

As I walk to open my lungs and breathe – I sing. On the yellow fields I hear a gentle sound.

Not a tractor, no.

The sound of me: landing back in my body.