Late Summer Reverie

I wandered to the top of the garden to my favourite spot; the bench that sits beneath the greengage tree, amongst the vegetable beds. In front of me is the arch, dripping with runner beans, behind that my huge apple tree bursting with crimson fruit.

I listen and hear a Woodpecker calling, and the lowing of a cow in the distance, calling for her calf; watch a bee settle on a nearby flower;  see a dragonfly and hear the whirring of its wings.

 

 

The leaves on the nearby Sycamore tree are swishing in the wind, a background noise that is so constant, here on our hill, that it is hardly noticed.  The crows gather there and keep up a noisy dialogue for most of the day. The sun goes behind the clouds and the wind picks up and feels a little chill.  Then the clouds break and the sun beams through again - how changeable it is at this time of year.

 

Rain clouds are gathering; now the bean leaves are rattling together in protest.  I turn my head  and see the cows grazing in the back field, just getting on with the business of being a cow.  A tractor trundles up the farm track pulling a muck spreader behind it; the smell of liquid manure is pungent as it drifts across the fields on the quickening wind.

"Autumn begins with a subtle change in the light, with skies a deeper blue, and nights that become suddenly clear and chilled.  The season comes full with the first frost, the disappearance of migrant birds, and the harvesting of the season's last crops."
Glenn Wolff

 

Late August, given heavy-rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for picking.

Seamus Heaney

 

Sitting quietly listening to the sounds of the day; reassuring in its normality; comforting in its simplicity - I lose myself in this time, this place.

O England, country of my heart's desire

Land of the hedgerow and the village spire.

Land of thatched cottages and murmuring bees,

And wayside inns where one may take one's ease.

Of village greens where cricket must be played,

And fat old spaniels sleeping in the shade.

E.V. Lucas



And as I watch an airplane soaring and hear its rumble in the sky as it heads to its destination, I sit on my green bench, my feet firmly on the ground, writing it all down, then the church clock chimes and breaks my reverie.

 

So another week passes - on Sunday the sun shone all day long.  It was a delight to feel the sun on my skin as I sat reading outside taking advantage of the good weather while it lasts.  A book called Bitter Greens by Kate Forsyth - 'a perfect book to curl up in a chair and forget the world with.'  Three women, three lives, three stories, braided together in a compelling tale of desire, obsession and the redemptive power of love - a re-telling of the story of Rapunzel.  I can hardly bear to put it down.

On a more practical note I have been re-connecting with the earth, sowing the last of the lettuce and radish seed for some late crops; gathering Mint (Moroccan, Spearmint, Basil, Chocolate and Apple) to dry for use in Winter; and snipping stems of Lavender for making scented pouches.
 

I had a serendipitous moment in the newsagents this morning I picked up a Writers magazine,  which has spawned an idea for what I will be doing this winter - there are  competitions in it for short story writing - I think I may have a go - a good way to attempt to  write in different genres - this month  the topic is an Adult Fairy Tale - now there's a challenge!



 

'Til next time

Elaine

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