Friday
Here begins the last calendar month of Spring.
Half-fledged pheasants flee car wheels. Has the frost left? It had clung to the land for too long. This morning’s air is warmly damp. The hedges have grown lace, kept colour.
To the beach we traipse; one Granma, one grandchild, one grandchild’s friend, one dog.
We are lucky with weather. Mild-damp until the ice creams are eaten up. Fat drops smack on the way home, burst on the bonnet. The girls sleep.
At home we hear giggling, and the crunch of apples bitten.
They watch a film, they say, ‘Oh I love that. Do you love that?’
Anything with sequins rocks. Grandma agrees.
Evening comes, it brings wine.
Saturday
A garden day. The barrow rolls badly, inner tube beyond repair. Another expense: leafed green growth, the recompense. Future dinners, medicines, sweets, inebriations, perfumery, decorations; the story of our year wiggles up, shakes in the wind. This is the year we added a scarecrow and all the arches need mending because the hedge sparrows are lining nests with our string.
Evening comes: Grandchild 2 and Granma take torches and walk around the Horse Field.
‘I’m afraid of the big bad wolf, Granma.’
‘The wolf isn’t here. Granma is. The wolf is afraid of me.’
‘And Doggle?’
‘Yep.’
‘Okay.’
Clouds blow, blur the moon’s edge.
Sunday
More garden work. The barrow rolls, badly, inner tube overlooked. Bumping on a flat wheel is still easier than dragging bags of silage.
Off and on rain. The washing comes in drier than it went out.
Rotted grass smells like the earth had digested it.
New mown lawn, dung, fresh turned earth, rain, an edge of old cabbage, soft citrus. In the polytunnel, a half-door open, hot and dry, aware of the deluge; aubergines are planted on, and tomatoes, chillies, nasturtiums, basil, sorrel, coriander, lettuce, salad onions, carrots, pot marigolds.
The evening will come, with a sky of darkening cloud, scented like stewed herbs, like bath steam.
Here begins the last calendar month of Spring.
Half-fledged pheasants flee car wheels. Has the frost left? It had clung to the land for too long. This morning’s air is warmly damp. The hedges have grown lace, kept colour.
To the beach we traipse; one Granma, one grandchild, one grandchild’s friend, one dog.
We are lucky with weather. Mild-damp until the ice creams are eaten up. Fat drops smack on the way home, burst on the bonnet. The girls sleep.
At home we hear giggling, and the crunch of apples bitten.
They watch a film, they say, ‘Oh I love that. Do you love that?’
Anything with sequins rocks. Grandma agrees.
Evening comes, it brings wine.
Saturday
A garden day. The barrow rolls badly, inner tube beyond repair. Another expense: leafed green growth, the recompense. Future dinners, medicines, sweets, inebriations, perfumery, decorations; the story of our year wiggles up, shakes in the wind. This is the year we added a scarecrow and all the arches need mending because the hedge sparrows are lining nests with our string.
Evening comes: Grandchild 2 and Granma take torches and walk around the Horse Field.
‘I’m afraid of the big bad wolf, Granma.’
‘The wolf isn’t here. Granma is. The wolf is afraid of me.’
‘And Doggle?’
‘Yep.’
‘Okay.’
Clouds blow, blur the moon’s edge.
Sunday
More garden work. The barrow rolls, badly, inner tube overlooked. Bumping on a flat wheel is still easier than dragging bags of silage.
Off and on rain. The washing comes in drier than it went out.
Rotted grass smells like the earth had digested it.
New mown lawn, dung, fresh turned earth, rain, an edge of old cabbage, soft citrus. In the polytunnel, a half-door open, hot and dry, aware of the deluge; aubergines are planted on, and tomatoes, chillies, nasturtiums, basil, sorrel, coriander, lettuce, salad onions, carrots, pot marigolds.
The evening will come, with a sky of darkening cloud, scented like stewed herbs, like bath steam.
Comments
[..."aubergines are planted..."] oh yummy!
Something about the scarecrow has changed. New scarf, perhaps?