I've been a way a long time. More than 40 days have passed since the feast of St Swithin, and just as it didn't rain every day as promised, I didn't write every day either.
The myth is broken, or perhaps it was a curse.
Anyway, I am still a writer. And now I will start again. One day after one day after one day, raindrops strung on a powerline, trembling mirror pearls, for 80 days or more.
A long time ago I said I would write at least a line a day and more or less I did.
Now is the moment for something else, for a haiku, a perfect polished acorn, deceptively small, holding the force of an oak.
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