Returning with the Lapwings

Resolutions are rarely followed through, isn’t that what they say? That’s life, this sputtering of starting again. Again.

As someone new.


Student production done. The set struck, the post-mortem endured, and this teacher’s yearly self-recriminations noted and filed.

A week-long devising workshop in London finished.

Always learning: usually from mistakes. Noted and filed.

And moving on… out of the passive voice.


The lapwings are back in the fields and along the edge of the lake. Canadian geese have claimed their pastures along the motorway. Spring’s hypomania is in full bloom just after sunrise. The grove smells like dark earth. Like death and the greening that follows.

Where the trees stop and give way to the plowed fields, the stench of manure is a slap to the senses. This is what life tastes like. Want it or not.


The puppy has a mouthful of moss.
I’m thinking it’s time to listen to the silence between the birds’ exclamations.


Last night I watched a woman dance to the sound of a train passing. Bach spoke through organ pipes, from over 200 years ago. The sacred. The profane. The meaningless distinction between a pianist’s fingers – oh, where they’ve been –  and the return of the lapwings.

The literal edge of spring.




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