Mourning rags

I don't mean to bang on about it. Most of the time it's fine. I went back to the residential home today - a week after John's death - to say thank you and just to be there for a bit.  Have a cup of tea and connect again with the lovely staff in order to let go a bit more slowly.

There will be no funeral. John didn't want a service but it leaves a gap, a river without a bridge or boatman. I've arranged to go down to the funeral parlour next week to wish his remains well on their onward journey. I'll take daffodils from his garden and primroses from the woods. And stand with a few others in the crem gardens the next morning when his slot at the backdoor comes and he's delivered in a van.

It makes me realise how important the catharsis of the funeral and wake are, to strike while the emotional iron is hot. A ceremony in May seems a long and disconsulate way off.

All that said, it was a glorious day. Walking the circuit later I saw these six cormorants come flying from the north and under the cliff - a fly-past perhaps. I pulled and clicked at buttons as they approached. It's not ideal but compared to when I started blipping a huge improvement.

An extra of that piece of flint I picked from a recent cliff fall. Even that could be symbolic in the warming sun of early March streaming in the window.