Last harvest

The last leeks are pulled, wood is unstacked and barrowed and stacked. The bitter wind blows out of ENE snapping and flying his flag.

Life continues, its cartwheeling emotions wheeling like the gulls he watched from his window, drifting like the grazing Dexter cows he loved and followed from his room, their patterns changing and changing again; punctuating his life and he punctuating mine. His full stop came suddenly in the end, his breathing dying away until there was none. Just the gulls wheeling and the cows drifting and drifting across the hill.