It was just over two years ago, sometime before lent.
our little newborn baby lay beside my feet in the moses basket, swaddled in hand knit blankets and lost within deep, pre-birth, womb like sleep.
It was mid-spring and the days were getting longer leaving drapes of sunlight dappled, leaf shadows across the wooden toy box and floor.
And the fibres of me simply sought to find the silence and peace that stilled the branches on the trees. Become the fearless bark, the transparent leaves, the praying branches.
Here was the silence, stark, immense yet somehow so very fragile. I had to seek it, it would not impose itself upon me. I gazed intently upon my new baby child's porcelain expression, the light dancing on the cream knit wool, once mine years before, words filtered through the silence into nothing, like muddy water sifting through sand.
The silence.
It quenched, and did not leave a longing.
And a part of it began to follow me through the days...
