A quiet lane

It's early Monday morning on a quiet lane in Wicklow near my home.

The sky is all grey cloud and blue, there's no knowing what kind of a day it will be.

A cow pops it's curious head over the hedge.

It's much too cold for late July.

Early summer morning in a quiet lane.

 I'm in a quiet lane and wishing I could stay in the slow lane, as the fast lane of Monday to Friday hurtles towards me minute by minute.

I'm awake since 5.30 after a night of strange dreams. In my dreams, I'm a prisoner with five others, under escort to incarceration. I'm carrying a large, square battery - we all are. We get into small cars, more like golf buggies; three prisoners, two policemen to each buggy. The policeman is kind. The boy next to me is kind. The bad boys are in the other car. I feel safe.

I could weave a thousand meanings into these dreams. Carrying our power outside ourselves. Feeling safe. Protection. Masculine power. Feeling imprisoned.

Or perhaps they are just random images arriving in the night.

Monday is here. Time to move into the fast lane. As the clouds hang low over distant hills, and the wind blows a cool breeze, and patches of blue promise sunshine.