Heat rises from baked earth,
sighs in whisper of thistledown and butterfly wings,
bathes in gold the green beneath
more and more relentless blue,
seeps in the sweet, ripe smell of bird-pecked figs.
Leaves flutter,
flickering the shadowed sunlight where
a blackbird sings softly, a trio of notes,
listening in vain
for stream babble
to finish the line.
It started as a 366 - now a regular Photoblog- just for the love of taking photos and sharing them.
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Promoting mindful living
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October and November 2019
"Words are all we have" Samuel Beckett.
sharing the stories of interconnection
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Just another blog of random thoughts.
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
lines that aim to be
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Diary of a Dublin Housewife
New Zealand
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Appreciating Everyday Life
Des enquêtes à pas de loup pour apprendre sur-tout...
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Life after the Care Farm
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In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.
Perfect late summer poem. The first three lines set the scene perfectly and I love how the blackbird stops short and waits in vain for the stream babble to finish the line.. what a great thought! Your description is lovely and I’ve experienced all of it. Even the fig tree. My dad was an orchardist and in our home garden there was a huge fig tree. I’ve never forgotten how green it was under the canopy of fig leaves, and it did get lots of fruit. Down here fig trees will grow but we don’t get enough hot weather to ripen the fruit.
Thank you! I feel sorry for the birds. It’s been so dry and so hot. The stream is usually dry unless one of the dams upstream has let a little overflow out.
There were hardly any figs last year but this year there have been masses. They used fruit trees for field boundaries here, and the lane is overhung by fig, different varieties of plum, peach and quince trees. It smells delicious 🙂
Sounds like paradise! It’s the first time I’ve heard of fruit trees being used for field boundaries.. I love that idea!
I think the previous generation of farmers round here thought of it as paradise. Almost all of them are descended from Italians from the Veneto region who migrated here between the wars. So many men died during the First World War that the farms in the region were abandoned for lack of labour to work them. The French government offered the land to Italian migrants for practically nothing. They were the poorest of the poor in Italy and flocked to take up the offer. They planted trees just for the hell of it, because they could 🙂
Thanks Jane.. a really interesting read. It must’ve seemed a wonderful opportunity to the Italian migrants.
It was and they were grateful for the opportunity. Very few ever went back and now they are second generation born in France and of Italian, they only have the names.
Lovely! 🙂
Thank you 🙂
The words and photo are infused with autumn. (K)
We’re having another burst of summer, temperatures still in the mid-nineties and not a drop of rain. The crows are getting cranky, nattering to themselves and attacking the poor buzzards.
That weather makes everyone cranky.
We must have the most belligerent pair of crows in the country.
Soooooo gorgeously composed! You always inspire me to write my best.
Thank you, Laura 🙂