Sunday morning.  There are daffodils in the window, and the heat of the day has brought them into bloom.  Perfect colour, framed in a window of light.  Behind them, bare branches of the trees, dark greyish brown, against the backdrop of a cool grey sky.  Silver light of the sun illuminating my window.

If I looked up, I’d see clear blue sky in the high window in the roof of the barn.  The promise of a beautiful day.  Of illumination and light.

This barn sits in the middle of the wood.  When I look out I am in the wood, surrounded by its grey branches, its brackish colours, its sound and movement.  Woken by the sound of birdsong.  Behind me the old walls of the yard, surrounding me with the stone bricks of history, reassuring me of my connection with the land, with the past, with the people who have gone on before.

The light flows into this barn and flirts with its beams, its staircase, its iron balustrade.  Shows off its features, moving around and showing me new corners.  The way light does.  Illuminates.

The light is softly Sunday.  Not the hefty demand of a day, but a quiet invitation to be peaceful, to move softly, to wander and explore, to feel the light, to let the rain fall, to allow your self to breathe into the promise of the light.

It cheers me, like the sound of the radio, giving me solace, connecting me, reminding me that I am not alone but part of, enveloped by, the shadows of darkness and light that play through the branches of this wood.