If I could fly
In the quiet of the day, we stood on top of Llanmadoc hill in Gower, looking down at the rolling fields and the wave-less sea beyond. An eerie silence wrapped itself around us and we suddenly realised that no bird sang and indeed, we saw no feathered friends. Sheep grazed soundlessly on the sunny slopes, occasionally looking up at us with little interest. But for the swirling puffs of smoke from the chimney tops in the village, we could easily have been looking at a painted landscape.
With an urge to break the spell, I thrust my walking boot into a frozen puddle until it cracked! Like an alarm bell, a small bird flew out from the dried heather to warn the world of our arrival. Ponies suddenly appeared, chomping on the defrosting grass, and across the estuary the hoot of a train was evidence enough that life still went on. But thankfully, the silence returned.
As I stood on top of the hill, I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms and imagined I was flying. Over the sand dunes I went and out to the shell filled beaches, then up and over the woodlands, where the hawks and the kites were hiding. A winter sun warmed my shoulders and the coconut fragrance from the early gorse, filled the air.
Opening my eyes, I saw my kind and unassuming husband looking at me, smiling. I smiled back, took his hand and walked back to our home for waifs and strays. Once again, I counted my blessings!