Here, a year has started inside of change, it feels like turmoil at present, with no assurances, nor trust, but for a shallow echo to what once was something in the water, written words which now fall through cracked and decaying rock, while monsoon rains flood across all, killing these wild grasses for a time, until seeds will be carried for miles in the coming days and floods recede, once more, perhaps.
Change, something to struggle with, along with trust, even though having learned all about it, and still learning. It’s those days which mark a history that make change most unpalatable at times, for even harbours have their storms. So perhaps the high seas are a far better place, even in southern oceans where winds and waters collide, and land, it is a distant thought. A shallow echo drifting, just a topsail.