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Something Borrowed – The Writer’s Way

It is just before seven on a normal week day morning. I am up, dressed, and ready to go. I give my husband a quick peck on the cheek, fetch my keys and leave the cottage.

The sky is a brilliant blue, yarn-dyed taffeta. It has a wonderful crispness. The fabric is not entirely flat, it has a gentle ripple effect yet; the colour is constant. A flock of doves dart across the blue, it looks like a string of pearls against the taffeta sky. The air is damp with dew.

I take my first tentative step. It is mid autumn and golden confetti is strewn casually underfoot, so I assume great care as I walk towards the car. I slide into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition and glance at the dew drop sequins glistening on the windscreen. They gently sparkle in the early morning sunshine, as the wipers try, unsuccessfully, to flick them away.

Suddenly the country church bells peal, welcoming a congregation (that isn’t there) to God’s morning. I jump as I always do. It is seven o’clock of course!  

I take a momentary look at the imposing architecture, beyond the church wall. Three rooks that had been perching in an old oak tree scream their disgust at the disturbance and flap around before settling back on their branch. I am glad they calm down quickly, they are a blot on my landscape this morning.

For some reason the continuing toll seems so much more celebratory today. Up until now, there has been a marriage between sound and vision and I want that to continue.

I thrust the gears into first and look to my right. A golden band of sunlight dances in the wing mirror, which reflects back a diamond solitaire. I check the rear view; there is nothing so I move off. As I reach the end of the road, I indicate left past the Scott Arms and turn to take the mile long drive from Kingston into Corfe.

It is then that I take my first proper look at the world this morning through the windscreen of my car, and gasp. There is the castle, a tiara sitting on top of a discarded sea-mist veil. Corfe is nowhere to be seen; just the veil and the tiara. So still; so silent; so utterly serene.


In this exercise from The Writer’s Way, Sara Maitland asks us to look outside a window, and to describe what we can see using metaphors. The weather she says is particularly good for metaphorical musings.


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