The wind blows and shakes the rigid edifice with windows rattling, and the boughs of the trees outside wave their new grown leaves in a dance of elation.  There is strain and tension in the air, whilst the black birds launch themselves from the tops of the trees into the path of the wind to be buffeted and thrown around like black rags; playing with flight.

Into the unknown we step and walk the tightrope between fear and excitement, acknowledging that control is an illusion and decisions are made with very little understanding of any outcome.  The road behind has gone and the road ahead stretches out like some meandering river and we are mesmerised by the mirage in the distance, ignoring what lies beyond the hedgerows either side of us.   We want someone to hold us, something to guide us, we crave certainty and steadfastly turn our gaze away from that one thing that defines our lives – the fact that we have an ending.

Here in the UK it is the time of the General Election, where the tired old body of a democracy that is anything but democratic receives its regular blood transfusion so that it might continue to exist.  So the promises are made that are transparently impossible to keep, and truth seems to have taken a holiday far away and left us to get on with it.  We are bombarded with reasons to hate; to hate those two enemies of the civilised world – the poor and the foreigner.  We are exhorted to the level of greed of the politician and the self-aggrandising rich, so that the central virtue of society is now crystallised in materialistic aspiration, and elevated to the highest form of motivation in our lives.  The heavy handed conditioning continues to hold is to this central fact that success is to be striven for and universally admired, whilst failure is to be avoided at all costs and even its very existence denied.  The consequence of this is the ever widening and deepening stinking river of corruption.

Now the votes are cast and the smiling complacency of the winners is matched only by the abject demeanour of those that have lost.  And nothing has changed.

Wild winds have given way to a chill breeze and branches move against the steel grey sky.  Spring is heard through the song of birds; the greens are deep and bright and there is new growth everywhere.  The year is turning, leaving behind the old and dying, seeking to replace and renew.  All the talk, words spoken and written cannot describe this movement for it is life itself.  And all the inventions and ideas of humankind are lost in this enveloping green, leaving the bare bones of the fallen tree in a bleached brown-grey submission to Spring: to played on by lambs, climbed by children and find a new existence as the home for so many insects.  In hope we look for answers, in desperation all we can do is look.