The green light and the blue fly with bird of paradise wings singing water songs through thronging shadows in the stream and dreams weave corded, threaded stories of life and birth and new things forming beneath the moonlight and the sunlight of a million yesterdays.
Nights and days follow, circle, and still the weaving is not done, not unravelled in secret silence but renewed, reflected, revealed and replenished. Perhaps if we grow wings, we may catch the flying threads and read, before the waters rush us, grass-stalk light, into the gentle darkness, over the edge of time.
The deluge ended at the end of the afternoon and the sun came out briefly. I took some photos of the wet. Unfortunately they don’t do justice to the scale. They only show the fast-running water and the deep lakes of it. They don’t show the sound of boots sinking into water and mud at every step, nor that the ditches are too wide to jump across and too deep to wade across. Fierce weather! It’s raining again…
This is the water running down the ditch outside the barn,
spilling over into the path that leads down to the bottoms
into another very fast-flowing ditch
along the willows.
The stream stayed within its banks at this point though it has carried away the dam made when the woodpecker’s tree was blown down. Just a part of the trunk is left.
There is now no culvert. The tufts of sedge mark where the path should cross the stream, which now flows straight over and cascades down the other side.
Between the ditch and the stream a lake is forming. Too deep to wade across in places.
It’s a lovely natural milieu, but it won’t stay like this. The farmers upstream will have dammed up the source of the stream and it will dry up completely if the summer is as dry as last year. There won’t be a drop of drinking water for the wildlife, nothing for the trees. The frogs will do whatever frogs do when their water source dries up, and the ducklings, well, I don’t know what will happen to them.
There are natural events and environments. Sometimes they get a bit out of hand, like at the moment, but everything goes back into its bed eventually. The willows were planted along the bottoms almost a hundred years ago because there is always water there. Except that often nowadays, when the maize or the sugar beet takes priority, there isn’t. It’s when we tamper with things that lasting damage occurs. I’m hoping for at least a bit of rain over the summer.