I look out at the July rain, listen to the thunder roll, the wind in the chimney, mop the water off the floor and try to find the voice of summer. In the livid meadow, feral cat shelters beneath a hay bale, watching the kestrel stoop and take the vole from the trickling stalks. There is no end, no stopping of the wheel, even though we have no use for these muddy times. sun sinks in storm cloud and spotting rain—somewhere it rises golden
Another night and day of storm and picking up the battered tomato plants. Another day of light that changes with lightning rapidity, booming with the drum roll of thunder. No fire this longest day and shortest night, the sky too charged. Who would tempt the force that draws up wind and tempest with our puny defiance? an ocean of clouds sails the sky all the shades of the storm and we watch and wait for the deluge, the rattle of rain and the detonation of thunder echoing in the attic, sending the cobwebs flying while cats cower no mice-dancing matters when the sky is unchained In the dog chamber, a sleeping hound, deaf to the bombardment, sleeps. Night is night is night, a time to let the bones rest and dream dreams of those young days of the wild hunt sleep the balm for old age a moon sighs.
There is no present moment. It’s gone like a raindrop falling, no time to inspect it, turn it about to see the seams. The light dips, and the last blackbird is silent. Did I notice the last notes? Or are they confused with the nightingales’ songs that never end? Light, ever changing fades to grey, the moon hidden behind thick cloud. Each moment thickens the colour until there are no moments of grey left on the palette, and shades of black begin. Birdsong beats the rhythm of passing moments, flowing into the past like stream water flowing into the future river, while I listen helplessly to the bird notes of an unrepeatable song.
night flowers with stars flower with light showering night-petalled stars
In the evening, the fox comes to wait for the food I put out, sits in the grass by the path to be there before the badger ambles up later. The badger track is clear, following the human track around the edge of the meadow and up the path. Fox cuts across country, trots up close to the house, waits, big ears alert, eyes shining, unafraid. There are few things lift the heart higher than gaining the trust of a wild creature. Night air sways wind breath singing owl songs so many eyes.
It’s an odd thing about the Visual Verse prompts, but more often than not, the first impression inspires nothing at all. A complete blank. Then, like a blank sheet of paper, it starts to fill up with something I had no idea was waiting to be written. This piece was no exception.
A neighbour stopped on the lane, hailed us, husband cleaning his boots, me holding dog on his lead. Asked had we seen the water down in the town. We’re cut off, it seems. Roads in all flooded and the quays in the town under water. The loop of the Garonne enclosing its flat plain of farmland is an unbroken sea.
He stopped and chatted about the world outside, a middle-aged man, old-fashioned, high-waisted trousers with darts, waistcoat, white shirt and flat cap. Could have been my grandfather stepped out of an old photo. He even had a stick. All that was missing was the ass. Watch the sky for the geese, he said. Then you’ll be sure the spring is here.
flood waters recede leaving comfry to flower in purple peace
Eagles are rare birds and I’ve never seen one. Their habitat is mountain, wilderness, isolated bodies of water. Like so many of the inhabitants of the earth they have been elbowed out by our despoiling of nature, our greed and selfishness. Those who refuse to make a next generation, who would rather die, fade into the dark than accommodate our leavings, are all eagles.
sky feathered air only purity reflects in those amber eyes
I was hanging up the washing in the veranda because it was freezing and looked like rain and noticed an atrocious stink of very fresh cat doo-doo. So, when I’d finished with the washing I cleaned both cat trays, though there wasn’t much out of the ordinary in them. Went into the study, sat down and sniffed. Same stink of cat poo. Inspected all feet and paws, couldn’t find anything, then husband asked if it might be him. He was right. He’d tried an unnamed aftershave sample he’d found in the bottom of his sponge bag. If the sample had had a name, I’d have published it, with a health warning.
earth scents even beneath the frost distilling spring perfumes
So many new starts on this stop-go ride, each one a life-changer, a string full of knots, threads in a parabola of joined up dots, how does one pick a moment and say, that one was the pivot, the tipping point? So many changes of course, different places, countries, jobs, births always moving, restless as autumn leaves, yet through each change, I have always had the same hand to hold, and at each turning in the path, there has always been you.
roots wander stretch deep seeds spill catch the wind and fly and sinking grow