Tuesday, 29 May 2018

A Sleep After Work






I am in the hammock, resting.

Dog’s important work, about which she is so enthusiastic, is to spit bits of mulch into my wineglass. 
My arms vibrate from the catch-up of strimming hedges and edges - how the wild sidles up, mouth open, ready to swallow us whole! Tenacity to admire, and good to be sure that if we take flight things will grow. Our wilderness is fertile. 
Because of storms I had shifted my hammock stand chandelier to the shelter of a tree. It suits that space as much, dangling crystal foliage. 
Hard green pods appear on fruit trees - all but the pear, nursed back from a near fatal fireblight, but that is in full leaf.
To be at peace here one must embrace the noise of birds, for they can’t all sing. 
A wind whips flame; across the fire pit a twisted log crouches, salamander-esque. 
Fat gnat-ish things fly. The swifts will be in flight soon to gobble them up. 
I am in the hammock, resting. 
Hedges and edges neat enough. Beans planted out. Onions cropping. Cabbages grow leaves big as sails. Syrup pots cooling on the stove. Roses blooming. 
I have drunk a swollen globe of red wine and not the pestering of Dog, nor the birds or wilderness, nor storms, not fire, can keep me from sleep. 






Tuesday, 22 May 2018

The Illusionist






Summer must be sliding in behind us, slowly turning up the dial. 

Primroses over-bloom, droop, even the bluebells are heavy. 
Elderflower buds besieged by black-fly. 
The lawn cut one minute and replacing every daisy head, every pimpernel, every dandelion with great sleight of hand. 
Bees are in on it, prepared. 
I am running for the hosepipe, feeling hypnotised. Azalea pink, chive flower purple, the fine stripes on citrine gooseberries - such awe is struck, such spectacle, such skill. 

Take an interval in the hammock, the silky hot hammock, too hot for a blanket this time - see how it is as though one could take a butterknife and slice through anything - until the breeze comes, draws across, makes a cooled crust.








Tuesday, 8 May 2018

An Evening At Home



Last night, as I was leaving work, fingers of mist reached from the moors to snatch the road; and the road was almost lost. It became a ghost trail, yet still led home. 


The sky was a void, backlit by an unseen half-moon. I had seen moon and sky clearly by day. 

In the garden our van glimmers, by the light from an open door. Mr notes that the outside bulb needs replacing. 

In the van, he says, the insulation is all in place. 
He has some dust in his hair. He looks up. Dog is round my feet, her tail knocking at the bags I’m dragging. 

Oh, says Mr, we won’t be seeing any meteoroid showers tonight!

It’s good to be home, post-heat, post-work, pull on pyjamas, put feet on couch. 

Turn on the projector, we can watch the sky from here. 
Well, I can. Mr and Dog are fast sleep.
I have a glass of nettle wine. I’m watching tigers hunt. I’m watching the sleepers smile. 





Day view of the van, insulation installation in progress -
easily as shiny as the moon!

View in through back doors.
End section will be the washroom and storage space.