After the deluge

the flood waters recede. After three days of solid rain, it seems to have stopped. For the first of February, Imbolc, Brigid’s day, the sun has come back. I have seen butterflies, violet bees and the first speedwell and bugle flowers.

The ditch that runs from the field above down past our woodpile is a cascade.


The first morning sun in months. Feels like that anyway.


brief sun

Between the ditch and the stream, the ground is under water.



This ditch was too deep to wade through in rubber boots yesterday.



It runs parallel with the stream, then bends left through the hedge to join the stream.

through the hedge

This is where all the rain water ends up—in the Caillou and the culvert that carries it beneath the farm track.

caillou culvert

Last day of summer

Last day of summer

I walk


to the quiet wild places

where even the fly tippers don’t go

to breathe in the last of the summer air

to watch the crimson vines climbing through the tired green

and clouds ripple in white shoals

across the vast ocean of the sky.

To listen to the songbirds sing one last song

before they gather up the glowing embers of summer fire

to warm them on their journey south

through the cold high air.

West wind gusts warm through turning leaves

that tremble and cling unaware their day is done

and whispers in autumn’s hesitant voice

a warning from the icefields of the north

“Après moi, le déluge.”