My Dearest Boy,
What a thing it is to stop and listen! To a young child, given space and time, this comes naturally. It is one of the ways in which we learn. In this time of the skylark’s song I have been reminded to cherish this gift.
Ah, my dearest boy, I tried to race the robin this morning. However, he was already whistling as I left home. I wonder whether you could copy the sound – twidlle-de-dwiddledoo; twidlee-do, twiddle-de- twiddledoo . (Or something like that!)
The village was in darkness and the full Flower moon perched low as I paused a while in moonshadow before entering the Spinney. Other birds soon accompanied the robin’s refrain. I wish I could identify more. The rooks were second to awake, followed by the chirring, scolding tiny wren. Over the next hour this small, precious haven became filled with a cacophony of sounds, rising and falling, swooping and resting, that blended together into a hopeful melody. The song is about the race to reproduce. It is about tribalism – if you will. A concept which does not sit well with me now – but its spellsong entranced and delighted me.
This week, I have seen videos of you making the sounds of waves and the wind in your basin boat and of you meeting and listening to sheep. It is wonderful that your Mummy and Daddy can send us these treasures.
As I left the Spinney, the sun rose over The Clappers. Layers of purple, pink, peach and a blue hue merging together as seamlessly as the accompanying birdsong. A message from Nature.
A lone blackbird, high on the May gifted me the most exquisite air as I crossed the fields to return home and wake up Grandad T. And then the skylark sang.
We both love and miss you.