Last evening at dusk stood on a ledge on the rocks that form a wall in the back garden, leaned into the bushes in the no-nonsense gentle acceptance of not being pricked by the thorns so wasn’t, picked blackberries, fingers stained, body warmed by sun-on-stone retained. This morning sat at the school desk at other end of garden, facing east, sun-catcher, sun-viewer, ate those blackberries, complemented by creamy milk. Grinning.