|Oh juice! Oh fullness; Oh grown love-child of Spring !|
|Torn wings of toil, mortal beauty in the last sun.|
England is the most wonderful of countries. Yesterday I cycled to the country town of Stockbridge and sat in the warm sun watching an alien tweed clad upper class world go by. I stopped and watched the last late cygnets in the river Test. Four deer startled and ran through the sun dappled woods where the bluebells will bloom in May. I long for them now and for their prophets - the snowdrops.
Today is cold and the last swallows fill their tanks before hitting the gas pedal and heading south. Geese begin to gather at the starting line. Soon enough it will be out to work in the dark and home in the dark. Perhaps I should strategically place a furry rug in front of the open log fire and do some research. No fire - no problem: I could paint some flames on a radiator in the lounge I guess.
|Willows overhang a sun warmed river Test.|
In these last days of pseudo summer I took some pictures. Once upon a time I could have done a poem but that gift voucher is long ago spent on frippery, anger and hoover bags.
Emma thinx: If it's going, let it go. Just keep hold of the string.