It’s not only black and white. The minor chords of grey that make the symphony complete and harmonious are playing in my mind. I have history here. Stone steps that leave an impression on the soft humous scattered about the earthy floor.
I am travelling light, treading lighter, carrying my creativity wherever I go.
(See https://jenimcmillan.wordpress.com/ for more photography and musings)
This is the room that I launch my next expeditions from. The contents of my backpack are spread across the bed. The grime from my travel day is down the plug hole and my undies are drying on a string in the backyard. The television is way too loud but I need to immerse myself in the language and this simple house in a French allotment is the perfect place to do it.
My friend is in the garden, digging white stones out of a growing trench in the sun-touched lawn. This is a foundation for a solid fence, one that will keep the neighbours from turning on his turf. I’d welcome them in to tea on the terrace and read poetry aloud but that’s where we’re different. I’m the bohemian throwback and he’s the retired gendarme.