A Rainbow Strikes
June is rolling by, awash, so everyone has forgotten that it's summer now.
This morning I peered into the vegetable plots, into the swaying minarets of onion buds, the splay of cabbage seed pods, not sure if the raspberries were the summer or the autumn kind.
Lovage flowers, tiny spray on tall stems; lavender in bud: summer.
Wild strawberries and rose petals in the dehydrator and the windows open to better hear the thunder: summer.
After an evening swim one must wrap up: always.
I am busy writing a story that seems to be running in rings about me, I am busy wild swimming to clear my head; working to pay the bills, reading up on rural planning law to wrestle reality from a dream. Picking the roses, the strawberries, the onion flowers. Tending the cabbage bed.
Standing still when I remember: see the swallows swoop by.
Or floating, bobbing up toes, while each rain drop ripples out.
Or that stop on the beach, while I am looking ridiculous with a towel on my head; two lumpy layered jumpers, damp jeans, barefoot; a rainbow strikes through darkening cloud.