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Listening

 

"Car!"

        Still a quarter mile distant on this gentle forgotten brae the motor rasped up worn tarmac between auld drystanes. It was time to pick up the basket and lean in to the ripe outgrowth. 

        A Morris Minor waved his thanks and stirred down a gear to tackle one final gradient up to the high road. 

        My mother placed a few dark brambles into my cupped hand before retreating into silence. Maybe her thoughts were of the jam she'd start to make tomorrow, back home where my father no longer was.

 

 

© copyright Russell Cavanagh  

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