Disturbed by dreams, I rise at dawn to put the kettle on. I cannot help but stare through the chinks of the kitchen blind, seeking you out amongst the uncut grass that has encroached into the old flower beds. And there you are, like a giant stone, well- polished, smoothed by the years, though no-one seems to know your actual age. I inherited the richness of you when I moved into this little house. You are there, just present, apparently unnoticed by a passing robin. I cannot linger to watch you as you start to stretch your neck out and to fix your beady eyes upon the world. I cannot wait the hour or so, perhaps, until you shift your scaley legs and propel yourself at speed towards discarded lettuce leaves from yesterday. I simply have no time to waste, must rush to do the things I know I should, and tick the lists I made to help me function long gone midnight. Yet now I pause, for just another moment. I see you, stalwart tortoise, statue-still and still existing in the barely morning light.
about thh author
Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. and has been writing stories for some time, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. D
id you enjoy the story? Would you like to shut us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the otherthalf goes to expenses.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of CaféLit book each year.
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