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Reflections of a working writer and reader

 

 

End of Summer

Closing up the cabin for winter. It was already the end of August and the fjord was still as wine in a glass. Above us the sky was a wash of pale blue unblemished by cloud apart for a few white puffs on the horizon.

The Rowan berries were the colour of sensuality.

As we left a brass band began to play on the far shore. The notes, each phrase, rippled with nostalgia.

Heading for home, back to our lives, our friends, our cherished illusions.

At the wooden gate there was a movement in the shadows of Thea’s room. I stopped and searched for its origin, waiting for another clue, but everything there lies deep in the past.

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