The atmosphere differs somewhat to that of a day time ambience; darkness overwhelms the dancing shadows as a moon struggles to break through a cloud soaked sky. The house always feels at peace during the late hours, whispering its gestures to a waiting audience. I feel like a gatecrasher, standing on the outside of a restful gathering, waiting for a noise to disturb the silence. Images stand in my view, their gentle pupose reminding me how the black of night can often obscure the purity of day. Floorboards creak as my beating heart races to out-do the intensity of drowning sound. Anxious, not scared; looking for something yet unsure as to its identity.
Telling whoever wants to listen about the gentleness of this house, how its arms are constantly wrapped around my family, is one of the things that makes me happy. I love that I feel safe here, even in the dead of night when the Grandfather clock becomes a ghost standing on the landing in all its beauty. The daffodils have started to poke through; green stems and tiny yellow buds fighting for exhibition. They were planted many years ago, when the Farmer was a young boy. I stood in the yard yesterday and asked Jim, "Did you plant them?". "Some of them," he replied, as he encouraged me to look towards the rose bush, planted in his memory.