Yesterday evening we went out walking. It was warm with a strong wind across the hill tops, and the sea from the hills was a dark, satin blue. We came to the edge of a pine tree forest where all the bronze needles lay thick on the ground. The forest was empty; just the knobbled bark trunks supporting the boughs which moved and creaked.
Across the valley the hills seemed to have arthritic backs, seemed to lie like reptiles behind and above the neat grids of streets and houses in Island Bay.
Eleanor, remembering one of her favourite books, padded though the grass saying “swishy, swashy, swishy, swashy”, and I felt my heart lift a little with a spring of joy. She’s the one that drives me to the red edge of frustration and anger, and she’s the one that makes me sing, makes me remember things like: O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in’t!