Last
night:
Rain
on glass panes keeps me entertained, in pattern, in percussion. The view is
dissolving in drops and the descent of darkness. An awareness flares, catches
the heart of me in a healing flame: I picture it like a Christmas pudding, safe
and warm under a dome of ignited rum. Maybe it is merely sleep hormones, maybe
not; thoughts and feelings flicker in a balanced performance of shadow and
light.
This
morning:
Baby
brushes my hair with the wooden hairbrush. I have a bruised temple to prove it.
Reminds me of the phrase ‘that will knock some sense into you.’ We harness Dog
to the pram and walk around the block of fields. Here the hedgerows are magical
habitats, winding with wild rose, tumbling vetch of many colours: so many
flowers I have not time to name them all. I note how the rose expands: a shoot
reaches up, flails in breezes until the weight of leaves and buds arc it back
to earth, to pop open flowers, circlets of sparking colour: like the world’s
slowest firework.
Your prose is hypnotically rhythmic, like being rocked to quiescence by a magically semi-somnolent fae.
ReplyDeleteHi
ReplyDeleteJumped over from Suze's blog.
I find there's often a camera in my hand, too. Visit one of my Sunday Safaris *smile*
- Mac
"...like a Christmas pudding..." Love the imagery here, Lily. Such a peaceful post. Just what I needed today. :)
ReplyDeleteThe rain here today was lovely, leaving pristine water-swept sidewalks & glistening grass.
ReplyDeleteOh, I love the baby brushing your hair. Worth the bruise. ~Mary
Thank you everyone- I shall be making return calls shortly- but being between houses do not have full use of internet so I might be a bit late- and my comments a bit rushed! Shameful really, when your comments are so lovely! :-)
ReplyDeleteOh my goodness - Suze did not lead me astray :) Such beautiful prose - I adore your description of a blooming flower as the world's slowest firework...
ReplyDeleteThank you Kim- Suze has marvellous taste- I was most pleased to discover your blog too!
ReplyDelete