Track rises
between small fields where grass grows
splashed with colour

Hot and dull the fields, full of origano and dense with trees in the folds where streams run. A patchwork of cultivation and places never worked at all. Birds pipe and the silvery sound of running water, deep and green despite the drought. There was a storm in the night, brief and noisy, half-filled the water butts and freshened up the frogs

greenfinch pipes
a complaint for the lost year
the empty nest

a lament for the cooling nights, the days shortening, this year’s young raised, and who knows if there will be a next year?
At the end of this lane there are only a cart tracks crossing country, meandering along the edges of fields, following the contours of the hills. Winding and empty, and I wonder how long it can last.

Vent d’autan
in the maïs—parchment
rattling wordless songs.


Yesterday I walked up to the top of the south facing valley side to see how spring was progressing.


The fruit trees are all in bloom, plum


cherry, and the blackthorn. The smell is delicious.


From the road that runs along the top of the ridge, you get a good view across the farmland that rolls back from the Garonne.



Going back down, I tried to get a shot of the château on our side of the valley but there wasn’t enough sun. It often looks a bit sinister. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the sun on it.



Going down into our woods. The photo has stretched out the lane and made it look flat. It’s in fact quite steep…

our woods

I’ll put a few flowers in another post.