A Room With a Bruise

Downstairs in our home has steps. Lots of them. All over the place. Our abode moulds itself round an incline. The ground floor is where all changes in level are accommodated with these steps. Steps are very tricky when you're on crutches. Steps are why I'm in this mess. 

Due to the quirky layout of our home, a former blacksmith's forge, our bedroom is downstairs. Consequently I've decided to base myself upstairs in the spare bedroom. With its ensuite shower room on the same level, it's much easier to get to the loo without resorting to undignified bum shuffling. 

I can see out of a window from my perch, where I rest my ankle. There are sheep in the far field wandering about grazing on brown grass. The farmer delivers barley, dispensed from his trailer. The sheep start to run, eager to greet it. 

The morning light today is clear and bright. A breeze is teasing extremities on the trees which sway gently as if waving good morning. It makes me smile. Occasionally they stir with more vigour, as if they have caught the drift of a new piece of exciting gossip they must urgently pass on. 

The spiky silhouettes of my dracaena houseplants stand to attention from their spot near the window, a hauty salute to the new day ... we accept the generous radiance you bestow even if we can't get out to enjoy it.