Bedrock

Some things, you can't collect later in life. You had to be there, grow up in a particular kind of place, go to a certain sort of school, see a sky the hard grey of the limestone, the sheer stretch of a windy beach washing, washing away.

The words of anger, sorrow, love even - they don't have a resonance until I hear them spoken with soft, short northern vowels. And where we come from, understatement underlines the sentiment.

I'm becoming ever more conscious of the spaces in between, the silence as well as the words. Some things we say, some things we don't. I hear them all.