Monday Afternoon:
In the polytunnel a sunflower swells close to bloom. Peas climb and look merry;
something in the curl of those tendrils: how they reach to the world. Leaves on
a butternut squash, squash a few stray spinach plants and the leeks,
encroached, will need a rescue soon. The tomatoes have their own cul-de-sac,
opposite the nursery shelves that are stocked in repurposed pots. In here it
simmers with life, it brews up out of the soil, this amazing overboil of leaf
and frond. And even outside, it is hot.
Washing is crisp on the line.
Monday Evening:
After the storm, after the lightening bolts horizontal over the road ahead,
after the one roll of thunder heard; the long deep roll over the moortop; a
looking glass puddle at the roadside shows us the stilled sky, the tree
branches leafed and quiet.
Tuesday Morning:
Dark swarms; washing is unpegged from the line. Squares of yellow and blue fold
over the wire clotheshorse instead. Under the lean-to roof there is a problem
with cats. Loganberries grow from a barrage of cardboard and empty coal sacks;
grow like vines, heavy with fruit. Thunder bounds out, over the wild moors;
rain on the plastic roof falls voluminous.
Through a cloud split, sun makes eyes squint. It lights the horizon, the portentous
pods of cloud, forms a bold shadow from the fat-trunked ash.
Comments
Not that you're asking us to choose by any means but I do happen to like Monday afternoon's report the best. There are many, many layers of magic.