Poorly me sat in bed, looking through a
window:
I see the grey-stone shed has chartreuse lichen and one tawny leaf stuck in the centre of a wobbly tile: all the roof looks like the teeth of a doddery monster. There's a job to be done before winter storms in and floods out the dodgy electrics.
Roof dentist.
I see drab olive clouding the polytunnel - it needs washing, so what there is of winter's light can filter through, keep our greens growing.
Later, when my cold-head clears, none of that will trouble me; nor the rat burrow newly appeared under the compost bins, nor the pruning or the planned adventures with miscible oils, or setting out the fruit cage frame which should have been done months ago. So I will not fret.
Patience for resting is a new skill.
I shan't say I've mastered it. The dusting got done, and the carpets swept, rosehips brewed, and maybe I did flavour some sugars, and wring the juice from an orange. And one load of laundry. Perhaps.
The air is like a reverse heat haze, not quite rain, not quite mist, a sort of smudge and glimmer. I'm watching plumes of fir darken to silhouettes, and how the fence is lost under ivy, and how the wooden slats on the big shed have weathered in. It looks like an upturned barge.
There's bare twig in the back hedge, new growth in the field beyond.
Dormancy, winter brings: potent in pause.
I see the grey-stone shed has chartreuse lichen and one tawny leaf stuck in the centre of a wobbly tile: all the roof looks like the teeth of a doddery monster. There's a job to be done before winter storms in and floods out the dodgy electrics.
Roof dentist.
I see drab olive clouding the polytunnel - it needs washing, so what there is of winter's light can filter through, keep our greens growing.
Later, when my cold-head clears, none of that will trouble me; nor the rat burrow newly appeared under the compost bins, nor the pruning or the planned adventures with miscible oils, or setting out the fruit cage frame which should have been done months ago. So I will not fret.
Patience for resting is a new skill.
I shan't say I've mastered it. The dusting got done, and the carpets swept, rosehips brewed, and maybe I did flavour some sugars, and wring the juice from an orange. And one load of laundry. Perhaps.
The air is like a reverse heat haze, not quite rain, not quite mist, a sort of smudge and glimmer. I'm watching plumes of fir darken to silhouettes, and how the fence is lost under ivy, and how the wooden slats on the big shed have weathered in. It looks like an upturned barge.
There's bare twig in the back hedge, new growth in the field beyond.
Dormancy, winter brings: potent in pause.
Comments
We don't get a whole lot of cold weather here, but it's certainly in no hurry to arrive this year. It's close to seventy degrees right now, and I'm still wearing shorts.
Have a super weekend!