Writing

Waking Up

They pierce the near-night silence, even before the Overground rumbles. Robin calls, sharp and insistent. Blackbird, shrill and strident, sends a warning volley.

Early sunlight strokes my sleep cold face. Wild garlic and crushed bluebells, the scent of memory, drift through an open window. Like this London morning, welcoming Spring.

This was a piece of Flash Fiction, which appeared in the Frantic Clamour of Spring anthology.

Image by welshkaren is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

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