What’s the one luxury you can’t live without?

No Master by William Henry Davies~1872-1940

Indeed this is the sweet life! my hand

Is under no proud man’s command;

There is no voice to break my rest

Before a bird has left its nest;

There is no man to change my mood,

When I go nutting in the wood;

No man to pluck my sleeve and say-

I want thy labour for this day;

No man to keep me out of sight,

When the dear Sun is shining bright.

None but my friends shall have command

Upon my time, my heart and hand;

I’ll rise from sleep to help a friend,

But let no orders strangers send,

Or hear the curses fast and thick,

Which in his purse-proud throat would stick

Like burrs. If I cannot be free

To do such work as pleases me,

Near woodland pools and under trees,

You’ll get no work at all, for I

Would rather live this life and die

A beggar or a thief, than be

A working slave with no days free.

What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?

One small adjustment I could, should and will make is regarding my input here on Daily Prompt.

My responses daily have been mostly a bit thin on the ground this last week or so, as the pneumonia ( so brutal) has had the upper hand…but I have managed to do a little story telling…..and here’s where I need some improvement..editing. I pretty much write what’s in my head. They are not crafted, and so end up on the page ‘ as is’…and not looked at again for hours or maybe days at a time.

So my lovely peeps…if anything I write from time to time stirs you at all…do let me know. It would help me to grow…. Thank you. Much love x

So….time to pull me socks up, there!

Another blog related improvement would be to get your input. I’ve loved writing for as long as I can remember, but it’s only now 102 days in to DP @ WP, that I think I can continue without much distraction.

Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933

( War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And one will not know of the war, not one

will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

What does freedom mean to you?

The struggle was futile, an old cobweb proving more mighty than the exhausted fly. A cat sat silent and still watching the drama unfold. Hearing the tiny creature buzzing and shaking and watching as it stopped and started again, trying to release itself from the sticky silky fibre now encapsulating it.

The sun shone through small cracks in the side of the shed, which was held up with only memories and luck. Dust particles danced in the air. The cat now sitting on the window sill much closer to the fly, watched only.

A storm the night before had forced open the rickety door, allowing the animal inside to shelter and then rudely slamming it shut behind him.

It was the first Sunday in May, a beautiful morning.The clouds had been blown away by the gentle breeze. Church bells rang out joyfully across the village green.A healthy bee buzzed, a young blackbird called out for snacks. Robin surveyed his estate.

A young girl entered the garden, seven maybe eight years old. She spotteda favourite summer dress on the washing line. It was dry now, she must remember to tell Grandma.

She tugged at the door to the shed until it opened. ‘ There you are!’ she said as the cat nonchently walked passed her, without so much as a thank you. A little squeak? Maybe a tiny one.

As the cat headed off up the garden path the girl went further inside.She could hear the buzzing at the window and stepped forward. Her hands carefully reached for the fly and then gently she relieved it from the tangle of threads.

She turned for the door, stepped outside and the fly found freedom.