Sunset sunlight laying itself gently down like fragile thin sheets of paper gold on westward facing leaves of lime and dangling laburnum bells.
To the east, high, harsh and pregnant-heavy, rainclouds are bergs of heat-bruised smoke and a light, capricious wind moves the dancing flames of my
dry-log fire. Big traffic is on the hoard and wolf road again. I can hear the cries of homebound geese.
My garden, my soul and my world need the promised rain. I will be gone before it begins. Tarzan must seek his God alone. It is the only way.
