It is morning down on the farm and the crisp winter sun brews over the cows and the sheep, frosting their fur in a coat of dew. Rising and shining, Jemima stretches out of her bed. She can hear the jingle of bells as her ginger cat comes mewing and chortling for some breakfast. The view from her bungalow is magical. Great oak trees tower over with their burnt-orange leaves rusting on the ground. The Squirrel darts from branch to branch – residing in the bird hut. The chicken’s squawk from the...
It is morning down on the farm and the crisp winter sun brews over the cows and the sheep, frosting their fur in a coat of dew. Rising and shining, Jemima stretches out of her bed. She can hear the jingle of bells as her ginger cat comes mewing and chortling for some breakfast. The view from her bungalow is magical. Great oak trees tower over with their burnt-orange leaves rusting on the ground. The Squirrel darts from branch to branch – residing in the bird hut. The chicken’s squawk from their roosting house, and man-made noise is nowhere to be heard. Even the tractors are silent this morn. And so Jemima picks up her guitar and crafts a story by her windowsill. She writes of love, loss, hope, the sun, the winter. And then after the day is done, she will meet her boys in the barn where they each will play their musical toys: Bash, tap, tinkle, strum, smooth, pick, ponder, blow, breath. They call themselves She Tells Lies. Because she does.
show more...
