April intention

This house, the house I decided in an instant was the one for us, standing with my back to it and looking at the view, trying to ignore the silly saleswoman who did not deserve her salary, having already kept me sitting there, on guard to prevent anyone else from taking it, for half a day while she hunted for the keys (and the day incidentally my daughter’s third birthday, but she  two hundred and fifty miles south), we have lived in for the past thirty-seven years.
That day I could see the openness, the green of fields and blue of distant hills, and the conical absurdity they told me was called Roseberry Topping, and the wide expanse of sky.
Since then Roseberry’s top has been blown off lest it become too dangerous, much green has turned to red filled with what was said to be the largest housing estate in Europe, the straggled hawthorn hedge across the road has grown to hide the hills, but we still have the wide expanse of sky, and can track the annual progress of the sunrise from beyond far left in summer round to the Cleveland Hills on the shortest day.
And there, also but low (so no fear of flooding) and out of sight, is the river, the river Tees, then tidal, flowing out from right to left and leaving twice daily expanses of wet mud so that there was always a question when walking down to it as to what one might see.   Until they built the barrage and removed variety, leaving just the growth of the giant hogweed and the comings and goings of the fishermen to make the changes, so that, lacking dogs and children, I ceased walking down between the golf course and the field and cannot now remember when I did it last.
But from the first of April I have vowed that I will do it daily partly for the exercise and fresh air (I spend too long sat at my computer) but also so that I can return home with a line or two, some words of poetry or prose to add to my stones of communication blog.