In the light of an early morning, when night time was reluctant to allow the day to start, we walked up the hill, past Mr Griffith's house where a light shone out of the tiny window.
The wind was rising, and there were snipe and curlew and lapwing and bright pheasants like flames. Beneath the music of the wind we thought we could hear the wind cat calling, but maybe it was just the buzzard mewing.
In a field we found tiny ponies, hair all blown about, hooves so small, almost as small as a cats paw.
At home She stirred up the fire and took out the ashes and fed more fuel into it and the sleeping dragon there began to glow again and send out warmth. We rested by the fire while She went into Her studio to scribble and scrawl and colour things in and watch the bright birds dance outside Her window.