The Cabin

This is my favourite place.  It is my home.  I bought it and I helped make it.  Many people think that this is a poor substitute for a real house or flat.  they come and admire it and comment on how quaint it is but, they go home and ask their husbands or wives how anyone could live in such a tiny place. They don't realise how lucky i feel to be here.  it may be cold in winter; I have to put on jumpers in the evening and a few winters back I even went to bed in a hat for a few freezing nights.  In the summer it can get boiling hot and stifling until you throw open the door and the double windows and the fresh breeze wanders through the house.

Yes, it might seem like a doll's house to many but I don't mind.  It fits me and there is no space wasted.  There is no guest room and I have to climb up a ladder to get to my own bed at night but this to me is joy, not deprivation.  I walk out on warm evenings feeling the grass underfoot and watch the midges dancing in the air.  I rest my back against the front door and feel the caress of the sun on my face.  

I watch the apple tree turn from bare, to blossom, to fruit and then watch as it weeps it's brown leaves to the ground.  I watch the blackbirds feasting on the fallers; pitted with disease and harbouring some maggots but such richness is still encased in those rosy orbs.

When I am at home, I feel that I can do or be anything I want and although the house is animate I can almost hear it's breath synchronised to mine.


Time up.
Inspiration:  I'm really rushed tonight I have loads of work to do so I wrote about a special place to me and this is the easiest one I've done.

Sleep

To drift off in the dark warmth of sleep. The first feelings of relaxation and the body slowing down. The lids becoming heavy and the mind smiles when it is allowed to retreat into the dim caverns unchecked by stress or the responsibilities of life.

Sounds around us become more keen and a discordant knock or whine may bring a wrinkle to the brow and there may be part of the conscious mind that still will try to place it so that it can be rejected as safe and we can be at peace.

The flicking on and off of light as the lids droop then lift, droop once more, lift ever slowly once again as the world becomes a blur and they close for the last time.

If we are lucky we will not dream and our whole being can float the black silken road until the body is fully sated with slumber.

Perchance to dream? Then hope it is something gentle: the caress of a loved one; water, soft and cleansing, drifting over our outstretched arms; a cooling breeze making leaves dance; the welcome of a smile and soft skin.


Time up.
Inspiration: I had a nap today and the only person I know who had written about sleep is Shakespeare. I don't doubt others have, I just haven't read them.