May journal 6

Nothing happened here today,
the sun, the clouds, a brisk spring breeze
that rippled through the rising stalks.

Nothing changed except the vines
that tendrilled higher opened leaf
and crept across the lizards’ walls.

So many birds are singing now,
the rich of oriole, the lush
of blackbird, thrush and nightingale,

I tend the ear for gentler songs,
the warbler, chiff chaff, chaffinch songs,
the whisper of the poplar leaves.

Nothing happened here except
the growing and the nesting, now
at dusk the bats take to the air,

and deeper dusk will bring the owls.
I hope for many more such days
of birdsong, growing, golden peace.

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May journal 4

All night it rained and the sound of pattering drops on the grass came through the open window.

Because of the rain, I had put the food out, for those who want it, in a plastic container, and once again, there was no sign of it in the morning. Feral cats eat in rapid silence and slip away. Foxes play.

Dull cloud blanket, sandy brown, has broken and the morning shines bright after the rain, the meadows full of spangles and the white, pink and yellow of wild flowers and orchids.

Birdsongs are interspersed with kestrel cries, pheasant calls and the hammering of nails into the bardage which will keep the east wind out of the porch, and the new dogs in. Each nail in each plank brings them a little closer to home.

Rhythmic tapping
axe hammer woodpecker
a dog barking
hoopoe hooping
the rumble of a distant tractor
slow flapping of buzzard wings
the pulse of this living world.

May journal 2

The morning was sandy brown, and the breeze muttered beneath the clouds before they broke, tattered, and the sun scattered golden butter into flower cups. Below, among the willows, four ducks landed to graze, and the coypu family played in the long grass by the stream. A whip snake startled among the vine rows, startling.
The day meandered, weeding and pruning back a rose reverted to wild. So much to release from beneath the weight of goose grass, bay and bramble, delicate things struggling for breath and a sight of the sun. Among the dead stalks of winter jasmine, I disturbed a robin’s nest, blackbirds ran beneath the bushes.
Evening, the blue sky streaked with purple and pink, and as the birds prepare to roost, the bank across the way poured out a rabbit colony. Evenings, nothing moves on this lane, only rabbits.


In the balance
between light and dark
between seeing and hearing
the air throbs and rustles
shadows grow
from dead leaves.