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.
We had no internet for a couple of days, got a lot of revision done. It’s just back and so is summer. 24°C yesterday 34°C today.
I have missed the damselflies, their gem-stone glow among the tree shadows along the stream, the sapphire and emerald, turquoise and garnet against the slow dark water. When the sky has been a stormy sea and the meadows an ocean of waving waterweed, I have missed the light.
Now the sun clouds have broken, tame as sheep and horses, and nothing trammels the summer sun, insect-light fill the shade. And in the sun among mauve banks of mint and pennyroyal, teasel and thistle, the flutter of butterfly wings, every shade of russet orange splashed with white and streaked with black, is so dense, their silence seems impossible.
The air moves and the poplars sigh like the sea, foaming on the strand, breathing butterfly and dragonfly so loud I can scarce hear the gentle piping of the birds. Later weighed down by the growing heat, the breeze dies and even the poplars fall silent.
From cold clear night of crystal stars, the day rises to a crescendo of heat, and the meadow combusts in butterfly wings.
By the house, flowers hang limp. A dragonfly zips and whirrs like a clockwork toy.
this world rolls skyward evening clouds dove-grey— a new moon sets in gold
Tis the season, so here’s a festive decoration from outside the barn door
and one from inside the barn door in the kitchen
House hunkers down. The folk that pad and trot around its walls the night have gone. Only the birds, ever-hungry, ever-cheerful chatter, fluttering from tree to tree and into the porch after seed and other necessities. A deer family ambles through the willows by the stream. Dawn sun streams gold, a glimpse of heaven before its flow slows and ceases. Cloud thickens.
days slip deeper into the heart of the cold east wind sighs winter