Skip to main content

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.








Comments

A cool breeze in the heat is a magical thing.
As always, you paint a lovely picture.

Summer's sliding in here, too. We've already had several days above ninety degrees. Lots of rain, too, so our grass... or in our case, the weeds... are growing faster than we can push the lawn mower. (Growing like weeds, you might say...)
Geo. said…
Have I told you lately I sure like how you write? You're one of the reasons I blog --and a prominent reason I blog even while recovering from surgery and uncertainty. You are an earthling, one who speaks the language of nature, the language of the universe. Thank you.
Lisa Southard said…
Every bit as lovely as warm socks on cold feet :-)
Lisa Southard said…
Thought you lived in a volcano until I remembered Fahrenheit! I wondered how the weeds could even grow! I hope at least some of your weeds are edible, eating is more fun than mowing :-) xx
Lisa Southard said…
I have no better recommendation, Sir, than your support. Thank you so much, and may the universe bring you ease of healing xx

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam.  Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence.  Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...