Wanderlust

today in church i had the most terrible case of wanderlust ever
it was so intense that i started writing on my order of worship about how everything seemed so beautiful in England (where i wanted to go)
so here it is:
as you read it, listen to the music below because it somehow reflects how i feel about England. its a roaming, an adventurous country rambling hedge kind of music that is tempered with genteelness.

~all roads lead to Johannesburg~
(what relevance this has to England is beyond me but it fits somehow)

Silver Birches: where cars crunch on pebbles and doc leaves tend to nettle sting, birds revel in the old stone cherub Bird bath, 3 legged dogs roam,
rabbits scurry through red yellow pink rose bushes,
and lady Marion hides in the leaves of the pear tree with the orange plastic swing
getting bark chips and tree dust all over her Sunday best
memories of Dee dee and wheel barrow ride (neither can be separated from the other, everything is a web)
and castles made of dried grass one small and one big, its 3 inhabitants having their afternoon tea nestled in the embrace of that lovely smell
2 Shetland ponies in the field nearby who are quite content with nuzzling grass from your outstretched palm
splitting peas with auntie sheila before the Sunday afternoon drizzle comes and marvelling at her pirate writing for a treasure map school project
cow biscuits hidden in a specific corner shelf in the kitchen, and in another, the sugar and salt shakers (one can steal a handful to suck but beware of sucking the salt)
jacko is subject to violent swings from Hannah and I (for silver birches belongs to Hannah and I, Tim is more of an ixworth kind of guy) and his wrist bears the brunt of our young eagerness
stairs are climbed up and slid down, bumpity bumpity bump, its carpeted surface worn down by generations of bottoms
a little black cat sits stately in the doorway and watches as you tie your shoes. she never moves for she is a constant stone, and doesn't even fall to the temptation of 2 glass bottles of milk which come each morning without fail, little bubbles around the mouth of the bottles
gather gather for a game of mousey mousey in the lounge,  flushed cheeks and bright eyes bely long past bedtimes
and if you lose your teeth,
you wake up to a 2 Pound coin beneath your pillow

Ixworth:Houses stand shoulder to shoulder and skin to skin and neighbours breathe each other's lives
the high street slopes down and falls away
its gravitatous path helmed by 2 rows of pastel coloured shops
in one smoky room a butcher watches a girl with oriental features buy a packet of cadbury chocolate coins, a ritual repeated once every 2 years, hello he greets her
she always hears and he is one of her favorite people though his private life is as shrouded from her as his face, masked behind several layers of thick cigarette smoke
down again and an Internet cafe-pastel pink- sits, serving afternoon chocolate and milk shakes, a comfortable place where little girls go unafraid and uninhibited
and if one takes a rickety bike over the bridge with its resident 2 swans
and past the woolpack(which holds promises of Jill's fantastic steak, pasta and strawberries and cream.)
one reaches the watermill, with its quiet pools or icy water disrupted by the splash of eager feet and nets in attempts to catch the tiny fish that dwell in it shallows, one can walk through an arch of weeping trees and emerge on the other side, where there is a gate that is perfect for leaning on as one gazes into the field of the mysterious farmer who trims his hedges into fantastical shapes, a crocodile, a rearing horse whose mane is blown by the wind and leaves fall into the quiet pond behind the mill house where dwells the swan family, goslings following with their mother.
nearby is the local store where you can find all manner of delicious food, berries and ice creams
and overall presides number 106 highstreet, opposite the fire station, where grandma looks out, soapy handed and soapy smell, waiting for Mick's cab heralding the arrival of her grandchildren, in her wooden kitchen in her small house. in the garden the birdbath lies hidden behind an enclave of shrubbery, and one can walk along the cool stone path on a hot day, or sit down to stroke sparkle the cat.
and return in the night time to hug grandma and breathe in her warm, powdery, soapy smell/

i so so wish i was there. i may be bit incoherent but think this case of wanderlust may be terminal and part of my heart shall ever be in England/