Summer’s first month arrives with its two weather predictions: a drought will come - or relentless rain. The first thirteen hours hold dry, though the air is heavy-humid and the wind skitters in the manner of an overtired child.
Down comes the windbreak, blown flat.
Grandchild 2 breaks from learning to skip. It’s cold. We go indoors to eat peanut butter.
(She is tired from her weekend party. She loves all her presents. She loved the candle on her cake, it was a number four. She loved the cake but she didn’t eat any except the horn of the pink icing unicorn and a sugar daisy.)
A small storm visits our cottage gardens.
Next door’s gazebo is brought down, bunting flapping on the grass like bright triangular fish.
Our tallest broad bean is bent over the side of the raised bed, it looks seasick.
Later today I will tie it back up.
We never know the weather, I will say, until our faces are in it, and however set it seems, it always changes.
The plants all know this, of course, I will really be reminding myself.
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