Large Marg and long lunches

Even the oak is turning

I forgot it was nearly winter, forgot the days fall away as if a spell has been chanted. I forgot that the air bites, the cold so present I can see my breath when I walk into the old stone house. I also forgot the shades of gold, the thick-coated horse, the mist on the flats and the floating leaves. It’s the middle of May, the sea…