Wild Dark Shore

by Charlotte McConaghy

A life of simple tasks, of day-to-day routines, of grass and hills and sea and sky. A life of wind and rain and fog and of smiles huddled around a heater and of books read each evening. Of hands clasping a hot cup of chocolate or the bend of a head against the weather, of wet clothes flung off at the door and trying to pick out the difference between a giant petrel and an albatross at distance.

As it ages, the dandelion’s head turns from its bright-yellow petals to become a seed head, or, as I like to call it, a blowball. The

I wake in the deep night with an aching need to do a wee.

Same.

The world is dangerous and we will not survive it. But there is this. Impermanent as it may be.