Graveyard Trees

An old oak tree in my local graveyard surrounded by headstones marking their respective dead. Some of the interred lived and died over two hundred years ago, while others left the world this year. Where do we go when we die, the bodies of expats, in this ever crowded city? Do we belong in the earth of our adopted country, or should our ashes be tossed into a powerful wind, forgotten in a puff of smoke, like a magic trick?


A path on Hampstead Heath

The leaves are turning on the heath, autumn is here. Is it already October first? Time flies when you’re trying to finish a novel! At least I’m walking again, bringing back my sanity, as each mile passed underfoot holds within it a chapter, a paragraph, a sentence, an image. They say nature is the best therapy. At night I dream of flying above treetops, my weird bird feet gently grazing the leaves like a whisper of green. My friend said the dream means freedom. It felt like peace. Perhaps the two are bound.